


The Keeping of One Sherlock Holmes

by WhatLocked



Series: The Seduce & Keep Series [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69ing, Anal Fingering, Anal Plugs, Anal Sex, Angst, Exhibitionism, Eyeballs In The Toilet, Finger Licking Midnight Toast Making, First Impressions, Flirting, Frustration, Great Big Fucking Spiders, Hand Jobs, Inability to Void, Insecurities, Intergluteal Sex, Jealousy, John has a rather sweary inner monologue, Locktopus, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mentions of Suicide/Attempted Suicide, Miscommunication, Naval Sex, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sex In A Sort of Public Place, Teasing, The Case of the Mysterious H solved, Uncooperative Blankets, Velcroed buttons, Victor Trevor is a Complete Arse-Hat, character injury, drug references, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 73,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4381559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that John finally has Sherlock, will he be able to keep him?</p><p>John's POV, first person.</p><p>As usual, I don't own these boys, but I sure love making them dance!<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock & Me

**Author's Note:**

> I am starting off again with an apology as this is basically Episode 1 of Season 1. So, again, to make up for this I will be posting 3 chapters today.
> 
> Just a quick warning that parts in the first three chapters may seem incomplete or may not make sense if you haven't read the ‘Seduction of One John H Watson’, as they are a run down of that story from John's POV.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know ...?”  How in the hell did he know that?  I have barely spoken three words to the guy and already he knows that I served in either Iraq or Afghanistan.  I am ignored in favour of him speaking to the woman that just entered with his coffee as he hands me back my phone.  I shove it in my pocket as I try not to listen to their conversation.  Something about her mouth being too small now.  Is this guy for real?  You can’t _actually_ go around telling people things like that.

“How do you feel about the violin?” he asks, suddenly turning back to me.

“I’m sorry, what?”  Did I miss something?  Weren’t we talking about Afghanistan?

He doesn’t look up at me as he rattles on about how potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.  Apparently sometimes he doesn’t talk for days on end.  I am finding that very hard to believe at the moment.  Then he looks up at me and flashes me the most un-genuine smile I have ever seen in my life.

“Oh, you ... you told him about me?” I say, none too happily, looking to Mike.

“Not a word” Mike replies.  Is he hiding a grin?  What the fuck is going on here?  Is this some sort of sick joke?  I can’t be.  Mike had no way of knowing he would run into me at the park and he has had no way of communicating with this man, so apparently, this must be for real.

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” I ask, confused, turning my attention back to the tall and somewhat intriguing man in front of me.  He puts on his coat as he turns to look back down at me.  There is a look there that I can’t quite determine.  At first it looked like he was disappointed but then changed into one of interest before it slipped into one of indifference.

“I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” Again, I am ignored.  This makes me some-what tense.  My therapist’s voice reverberates through my head.  ‘ _Trust issues_ ’.  I push it aside.  

The stranger proceeds to wrap his scarf around his neck as he re-checks his phone, (I didn’t think it worked down here?), as he keeps talking, continuing to arrange our meeting.  “Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.” 

I freeze as he walks towards me, holding my ground, unsure of what else to expect.  “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening. Seven o’clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary” he says making for the doors.

Riding crop?  Mortuary?  What the fuck?

I turn and follow his progress towards the exit.  “Is that it” I don’t know who the hell this guy is or where in god’s name we are even meant to be meeting.  Central London is a pretty big place. And who actually said that I would agree to go?

I strengthen my stance as the man makes his way towards me one more time.  “Is that what?”

Attitude?  Is he giving me attitude?  I force myself to stay calm.  “We’ve only just met and we’re going to go and look at a flat?”

“Problem?” he asks.  Unbelievable.  I look to Mike for some guidance, but he is of no help what-so-ever.  The bastard isn’t even trying to hide the grin anymore.  Giving up on having Mike as support I turn back to the stranger and look up.  He is quite tall, but I refuse to be intimidated by that very intense stare.  Short I may be, a coward I am not.

“We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name.”

The man studies me, as if I am some specimen under his bloody microscope.  The feeling should be making me nervous, but there is a feeling of anticipation there as well and I suddenly find myself hoping that I am making a good impression.  Why do I even care?  I shake that thought away and concentrate on not shrinking back under his stare.

“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic”  I refuse to flinch at that, even if it is my sister, not my brother.  He continues. “More likely because he recently walked out on his wife.”  How could he possibly know all of that?  I haven’t discussed that with anyone.  “And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid.”   I look down at my feet.  That was a low blow.  He knows nothing about me, (well, apart from what he just rattle off).  Suppose he would like to bring up my nightmares while he is at it.  I look back up to the man, determined not to feel bullied.  He looks awfully pleased with himself and I can’t help but feel a little bit impressed, even if I am some-what offended.  “That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” he finishes.

The man walks towards the door again and opens it.  I go to call out that I still don’t know where we are supposed to be meeting when he sticks his head back in the room.  “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221 B Baker Street” and then with a click of his tongue and a cheeky wink he leaves with an “Afternoon.”

I look to Mike in utter disbelief.  Did that just happen?

“Yeah. He’s always like that” he answers my look with a grin.

I say my goodbyes to Mike, stating that it was good to catch up again and head back to my bed-sit, thinking about the arrogant, intimidating, conceited, aloof, cocky Sherlock Holmes and find myself actually looking forward to viewing this flat with him tomorrow.  

~o~  

Back home I think again about Sherlock Holmes.  Actually, it was more like, still thinking about him.  Who is he?  And why is he so damn intriguing?  

I pull my phone out of my pocket and flick through to the last message sent.

**If brother has green ladder, arrest brother SH**

What was that supposed to mean?  Arrest?  Was the guy a cop?  If so, what was he doing in a lab at St Bart’s?  Too many questions.  I look over at my desk to where my laptop is sitting.  With the aid of my cane, (‘ _psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid_ ’, the detectives voice echoes in my head.  I brush it away.) I get up and settle myself at the desk, pulling the laptop closer.  I open up a new page and type in **Sherlock Holmes**. There isn’t a great deal.  No Facebook page, no twitter account, no address listing.  But there is a blog.  ‘ The Science of Deduction.’

I open the page and read through it.  As interesting as it is, it really is full of absolute bullshit.  There are article’s on the website that boldly states that he, Sherlock Holmes, was able to identify a software designer by his tie and another entry that explains how to pick out an airline pilot by his left thumb, amongst other things, and then there was a rather detailed, and horribly boring, article about tobacco ash. 

I run over our meeting again in my head, trying to pinpoint exactly what it is that is so captivating about Sherlock Holmes and what it would possibly be like living with someone like that.  And why was I even already considering moving in with him?  So far he has proven to be nothing but an arrogant twat, but for some reason I feel drawn to him and I have no fucking idea why.  

~o~  

The cab pulls up in front of the flat just on seven and as I hobble my way out of the vehicle I notice Sherlock Holmes, looking just as he did the day before. (I notably ignore the glance he throws at my cane.)

“Mr Holmes” I greet, holding out my hand.

“Sherlock, please” he responds taking my hand and shaking it.

“Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive” I note, still not sure if it’s going to be in my price range.

“Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour.”  ‘Must have been a good favour’, I think to myself.  “A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

My mind stutters to a halt.  “Sorry – you stopped her husband being executed?”  That was some favour.

“Oh no. I ensured it” he replies with a grin.  I want to tell him that that is probably not something one should be grinning about, but then I think that maybe the late Mr Hudson had not been a very nice person.  I am saved of the trouble of my thoughts by the front door swinging open, revealing a small lady, possibly in her late sixties, early seventies.

“Sherlock, hello” she greets fondly as she embraces the man next to me in a hug.  He has to stoop down to receive this hug as she is shorter than myself, and I am a good five inches shorter than him.  He then steps back to introduce us. 

Introductions over, we make our way inside and up to the second story apartment.  As usual, the stairs are a problem I pretend doesn’t exist but it is also a problem that I pretend doesn’t exist at my current accommodation, so therefore it is not worth worrying about here.

My first impression is that it would be a nice place, once the previous tenants junk has been removed.  It quickly transpires that this is not actually left behinds from tenants past, but are in actual fact the possessions of Sherlock Holmes. 

‘ _Well done Watson, not even in the place for two minutes and you have gone and put your foot in it_.’

I note an odd object on the mantelpiece and find a way to quickly change the subject. 

“That’s a skull” I say, indicating towards the human skull above the fireplace.  Turns out it was a friend of Sherlock’s.  Well, he says friend…

I am about to enquire what that actually means when Mrs Hudson comes bustling back in the room.  “What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

An unexpected feeling of pride swells through me that she thinks that I am Sherlock’s boyfriend and I almost grin before I realise that I am actually not gay. 

“Of course we’ll be needing two” I tell her.  Mrs Hudson doesn’t seemed convinced and rattles on about the married one’s next door.  I turn to Sherlock to get his support but he is not paying any attention to us.  Apparently the topic loses interest for Mrs Hudson as well as she is soon prattling on about the mess in the kitchen.  I decide to pretend that the conversation, or the swell of pride, never happened.  But then I find myself studying the man across the room and before I realise what I am thinking I am admiring how good he really does look.  Despite being quite arrogant there is something very, very, appealing also.  I mentally frown and go to change the subject.

“I looked you up on the internet last night.”  Damn.  I wasn’t meant to blurt that out.  I am really doing a shit job at this flat-viewing-for-a-potential-flatmate-thing, but then I see a pleased look on Sherlock’s face before it is quickly changed back into what I have decided is his standard look of boredom.  So, he is a show-off but doesn’t like to admit it.

His look of boredom becomes one of contempt when I don’t offer him high praise for his website.  He soon changes my mind when he rehashes all that he deduced about me the previous day.  Again, I ask him how he knew all that.  I think I am finally about to get an answer when Mrs Hudson interrupts again waving a newspaper about and commenting on the three identical suicides.

I notice that Sherlock is not paying attention to her, instead focused on something out the window.  “There’s been a fourth” he mutters and before I know it he has been swept away, by a detective, to investigate the suicides-come-possible murders.

“Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same” Mrs Hudson says fondly.  Not really what I want to hear when I am stuck, in a strangers apartment, with a bum leg.  The implication that Sherlock and I are an item doesn’t slide past me either.  “But you’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell.”  And it just got worse. 

“I’ll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg.”

Enough with the fucking pity. “DAMN MY LEG!” I yell and instantly feel bad.  I apologise and try to push away the guilt as she makes me a cup of tea and I settle down to read the paper.  After all, Sherlock did tell me to make myself at home, and anywhere is better than the depressing bedsit I currently resided in.

I am too busy noting that the grey haired detective that was just in the flat is also in the paper I am currently reading in an article about the suicides, that I don’t hear Sherlock come back up the stairs.  Needless to say I am startled when he speaks to me from the living room door.

“You’re a doctor. In fact you’re an Army doctor” he says.  It is not a question.

“Yes” I answer anyway and pull myself to my feet.

“Any good?” he asks as he pulls on a pair of black leather gloves.

Not to blow my own trumpet, but “Very good.”

“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.”

“Yes.” I still see it.  Every night.

“Bit of trouble too, I bet” he inquires calmly.

How damaged do I want him to know I am?  “Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much” I reply.  No need to scare him off just yet.

“Wanna see some more?” he asks with a mischievous glint in his eyes.  Apparently he doesn’t scare easily.

“Oh God, yes.”  It has never felt so good to utter three little words in my life, and before I know it we are in a cab heading towards a crime scene.

On the way I find out what exactly it is that he does and I finally find out how he knew all of that stuff about me.  All I can say in response is “That ... was amazing.”

This seems to take the detective by surprise.  Apparently that is not what people usually say. 

I was intrigued by this man before.  Now I am completely captivated.  His mind is amazing.  He is like no one I have ever met before.  I could listen to him talk all night.  He sees everything, (well, almost everything), and he lays it all out in such a way that you can’t be anything other than enthralled.  When he is explaining his deductions he becomes so alive.  It is magnificent to watch, and he is even more so at the crime scene.  I can’t help the ‘ _Brilliant_ ’ and ‘ _Fantastic_ ’ that come out of my mouth, but the detective seems to enjoy the praise.  But as quick as he has come to all of his conclusions he is off, something about a pink suitcase, seemingly forgetting about dragging me along for the ride.

I make my way out to the drizzling rain and realise that I have no fucking idea where I am or how I am supposed to get home.  I assume I am going home, and isn’t that a depressing thought.  If Sherlock had needed me for anything else surely he would have waited for me.  Maybe?

The female detective that had let us in, the one who was apparently sleeping with the weasily looking one, informs me that Sherlock has gone.  I didn’t like her attitude towards Sherlock when we arrived, and I don’t like it now, but she tells me where I can get a cab and I limp my way towards the main road.

As I pass a public telephone box, in my search for a cab, the phone begins to ring. I observe it for a few seconds.  It has been years since I have had to use one of those.  I keep walking and behind me I hear the phone stop ringing and think nothing more of it.  That is until I pass the Chicken Cottage and the phone inside rings, just as I pass the window.  As the staff go to answer it stops ringing.  I pass it off as a coincidence but then the pay phone just down the road starts to ring.

Now, I don’t consider myself an overly curious man but I when three public phones ring as you pass them you do not keep walking.  You finally concede that something freaky is going on and you pick up the god damn receiver and find out what in the hell is going on.

It is after the phone call that I find myself wishing that I wasn’t even a mildly curious person as I have now been abducted by a CCTV controlling cut throat, and whisked away to an old disused carpark.  And what awaits for me?  A Bond-Villain-wannabe with a hot assistant who is obviously not called Anthea, and an umbrella no less. 

My night just got very interesting indeed.

Doctor No offers me a seat.  I decline.  He acknowledges my association with Sherlock Holmes and then tries to scare me.  It’s probably a good thing that I really don’t scare that easy.  He demands to know more about my association with Sherlock Holmes.  There is really not much to tell, and even if there was…

He makes some crack about my loyalty and a happy announcement by the end of the week.  And isn’t it just fucked up that at that moment my stomach decides to do a little lurch for some unknown reason.  I don’t think I will ever know how I didn’t let that show on my face.  Instead I try and get information on the man in front of me.  Seems only fair as he knows so many things about me.  The only thing I get is that he has an unhealthy interest in my maybe flatmate which is not overly that sincere.  In fact he admits to being an enemy.  A possible arch-enemy to be precise, as if it is normal for people to have arch-enemies, let alone admit to being one.

Hasn’t my life just taken a turn for the bizarre!

My phone beeps.  I read the message.  Speak of the devil.

**Baker Street.  Come at once if convenient SH**

Goldfinger keeps talking, insisting that whatever is between me and Sherlock, (nothing.  There is nothing between us!), is most definitely his business and even offers to pay me for information concerning said soon-to-be-flatmate.  Apparently he is concerned for the man, but our transactions would have to be hush-hush.  My phone beeps again.

 **If inconvenient, come anyway  SH**   ( _Jesus, he is a demanding, impatient git_.)

I decline the offer. 

I am ready to leave when he pulls out a little note book and reads out a small phrase.  Just two words.

“Trust Issues.”

No shit.  And they wonder why.  And how in the fuck did he get those?  I will be ringing my therapist up tomorrow morning and telling her exactly what I think about her definition of confidentiality.  Unfortunately, though, this has left me clearly rattled.

“Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?” the man asks, still looking at his stupid little notebook.  I hate that notebook.  That notebook has my secrets in it.  He shouldn’t have that notebook.  I can handle Sherlock pulling up facts about my life from thin air.  That is just the curious nature of a curious creature.  When this man does it, it has a more sinister edge to it.  I don’t like it.

I have had enough.  I go to leave but am stopped again when he brings up the tremor in my left hand.  It must be the week for people to bring up every single thing that has made me a god damn failure.  Instead of feeling ashamed, this time, I am feeling really pissed off.  But then I am surprised, (but still angry), as the man points out that my tremor is gone.  He has seen through my damaged, limping front and has seen how much I miss the surge of adrenaline that spikes through my body when the pressure is on.

He has seen how damaged I truly am.  And with a tight smile, he welcomes me back.

As my mind whirls I hear my phone beep, but it sounds distant and I only just take in that General Orlov is strolling away from me, swinging his umbrella around, calling back to me that it is “Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson.”

I stand fixed to the spot for a few seconds and am then approached by not-Anthea telling me that she is to take me home.  Her fiddling on her phone reminds me that I received a message not that long ago.  I pull my phone out of my pocket.

**Could be dangerous SH**

I return to 221B Baker Street, but not before stopping at my bedsit to pick up my gun, because the mystery man was right about one thing.  I missed the danger and it was good to be back.  

~o~

  When I arrive at my probably-soon-to-be-new-home Sherlock is lazed out on the couch and I am not surprised. Three nicotine patched on his arm.  THREE.  Apparently it is a three-patch problem, whatever the hell that means.  And then I find out that I was called all the way across London to send a message, because he is a lazy-arsed sod.  I feel the fresh wave of adrenaline starting to abate, and I can’t help but feel a bit disappointed.  He said dangerous and I came running.  Apparently our definitions on the word dangerous vary.  Greatly.

It soon transpires though that this is still all still to do with this case and the adrenaline starts to spike again.  This surely can’t be healthy.  My therapist would have a field day with this information.  Oh, no.  That’s right.  She will no longer be my therapist because she hands confidential information over to mad men with swinging umbrellas.

I tell Sherlock about this friend of his that I just met.  Apart from chiding me for not taking the money, he doesn’t seem the least bit interested, even though he claims that the man i met is the most dangerous man I will ever meet.

Adrenaline spike just a bit more?  Check.

I send Sherlock’s message to apparently arrange a meeting with a homicidal maniac and confirm my theory that yes, Sherlock Holmes is most definitely an impatient git.  But somehow this confirmation forms fondly in my mind and what the hell is that all about?

Sherlock presents the victims case, assures me he is not the killer, informs me that I am an idiot, again assures me that that is okay because almost everyone is and I don’t see that her mobile phone is missing because, well, it is missing.  But apparently Sherlock sees these things, which is, I suppose, why I am an idiot and he is not.

That is when the killer calls my phone.  Adrenaline ups one more level.

Sherlock invites me to continue investigating the case.  I accept.  He tells me that I am doing a fine job for filling in for the skull.  I really hope that that is a joke.

We make our way to a small Italian restaurant where Sherlock can watch for the murderer.  Along the way he talks through the case out loud, asking me questions, but not necessarily waiting for an answer.  I again find myself enraptured with the way his face becomes animated as he tries to work it out.  And it is not just his face.  His whole body comes alive.  It is noticeable in the way he walks, and leans into me when he is excited about something.  The way he waves his hands about and the way he moves his head about.  And, as indecent as it is, (and I am quoting Mrs Hudson there) it is almost endearing at how excited he is.  I have never been so enthralled by one person.  He truly is amazing.

The restaurant owner, Angelo, (someone else Sherlock helped out), calls me Sherlock’s date.  The things that thought does to my insides is way too confusing so I make it clear that I am not his date and convince myself that it is for his reassurance, not mine.  Angelo still puts out a candle.

Admittedly the food is fantastic, and the stakeout gives me a chance to observe this man before me.  He is, actually, quite attractive.  I try and tell myself that it is perfectly fine for one man to acknowledge another man’s good looks, but I know I am only kidding myself. He is fucking hot.  It has been years since I thought about another guy like this, and it has never been this sudden.  But there is something about this man.  Something that makes me want to be close to him, to touch him, to want to get to know him more intimately.  Which is probably why my brain tells my mouth to talk and my mouth obeys before my conscience has a chance to protest and after a brief chat about the people that people usually have in their lives I ask, “You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”

I can’t express how happy my gut feels when he answers in the negative, and again my mouth is moving before I have a chance to stop it.  “Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend?” 

Oh my god.  Why the fuck did I ask that. Does he look pissed?  He looks pissed.  I should fix this.  “Which is fine, by the way.”

“I know its fine” He responds rather quickly.  I am digging myself deeper and deeper into a hole that is going to be impossible to climb out of if I don’t.  Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

“So you’ve got a boyfriend then?” I ask, shoving a forkful of food into my mouth, because something needs to stop it from digging the hole deeper.

“No.”  He looks confused.  I feel confused.  And a bit hopeful.  Maybe…

“Right. Okay. You’re unattached. Like me” I look down at my plate, hoping it will offer some encouragement because, suddenly, I feel way out of my depth. “Fine” I say with a nervous cough.  “Good.”  Oh, god, why did I say good?  How desperate did I sound!  I continue to eat before I can say anymore.

I am paying attention to the interesting pattern the pasta sauce has made on my plate when Sherlock shifts uncomfortably in his chair and then speaks.  “John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work” Oh god.  I’m not even sure I really want a relationship with a man and I am already being rejected.  How do I come across as not desperate and needy? “And while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any ...”

“No” I say, probably a bit too loud, and then a bit quieter “No, I’m not asking. No” and I finally make myself look at the man in front of me and I hopefully, convincingly tell him, “I’m just saying, it’s all fine.”  It must work because he thanks me and continues to watch for our murderer.

We don’t get time to reflect on that anymore as that is when we begin our partnership in bringing down London’s worst.  Well, it was a test run.  There was no actual criminal at the end of it, but by some miracle that crazy, arrogant, impatient self-assured flatmate of mine has done something that months of physiotherapy, psychotherapy and positive thoughts could not do.  He has gotten rid of my godforsaken limp and it was the done while having the best time I have had in a long, long time.  

~o~    

Drugs!  Sherlock Holmes, on drugs.  Is he serious?  In a million years I never would have guessed that about the man.  Drugs.  A fucking mind that brilliant.  On.  Drugs.  Is he fucking mental?  But apparently not now.  No, now he just overdoses on nicotine patches, although I am glad to see that he has lowered his dosage down to one.  I’m not sure when that happened, but it did.  And who is this Lestrade character.  He seems to know Sherlock.  They must have worked together previously.

And apparently Weasel Boy and Bitch Girl are here to search for drugs that are not here.  All of this fuss over that hideously pink suitcase.  Apparently this isn’t the first time Sherlock has withheld evidence.  Evidence being held by a self-proclaimed sociopath, (Apparently that fact does not constitute as a worst that potential flatmates should know about each other.) not to be confused with a psychopath, thank you very much, Anderson, is apparently a common occurrence.

After a brief flurry of information about the case it becomes apparent that Sherlock doesn’t have a filter.  At least not when it comes to talking.  He will just fire any thought he has off without thought or implication.  At least he acknowledged that the comment about the victim was a bit not good.  And then all hell breaks loose.  There are proclamations over how a dead woman is smarter than all of us, and then we are tracking a phone which is apparently here, in 221B Baker Street, then there is Mrs Hudson rattling on about a cab and then I am alone.  Again.  And I have decided that this is it.  I’m heading home.  I have had enough of this shit.  Either he wants me here or he doesn’t I’m not guessing anymore.  I quickly alter my decision when the programme tracking the woman’s phone stats beeping again.  Maybe I will guess one more time.  And I am guessing that Sherlock found that fucking phone, murderer in tow, and they are all, right now, moving away from 221B Baker Street.  I hail a cab and try to get in contact with DI Lestrade.

Just over an hour later I find myself waiting behind the crime scene tape at the Roland-Kerr College.  Sargent Donovan, aka Bitch Girl, has just given me a rundown of the whole thing.  Two pills, one good, one bad.  And I am internally fuming.  That dumb bastard of a flatmate of mine was going to actually swallow one of those damn pills just to prove that he was clever.  How is someone that fucking smart so fucking stupid.  How has he survived this long?   We are going to have to work on his basic survival skills.

I notice Sherlock looking to me as he talks to Lestrade.  He has a thoughtful frown on his face and then something occurs to him.  I make a note to study something of no importance instead of looking towards the Consulting Detective, the only one in the world.  Of course he figured it out.  Surely he wouldn’t actually turn me in, would he?  I push back the worry that is starting to well in my chest as I see Sherlock head towards me accompanied by the actual detective.  The one who can actually slap handcuffs on me and haul me off to jail.  Then Sherlock manages to shake Lestrade off and is standing next to me telling me I really need to get the powder burns off of my fingers, (yeah.  Thanks for that bit of advice), and before I know it we are trying, unsuccessfully I might add, to not giggle at the crime scene and it should not feel this good.  God.  It has been too long since I felt this alive.  What’s even better is that he lives for the thrill of it as well. 

We decide to get Chinese, but we are stopped by none other than my very own bond-villain in a three piece suit, still with that ridiculous umbrella and still being followed along by his very own pussy galore.  Sherlock and Dr. Evil get into a heated discussion about Sherlock joining the dark side.  Sherlock is clearly not interested.

“We have more in common than you like to believe" three piece drawls arrogantly.  "This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ... and you know how it always upsets Mummy” he almost whines.

I don’t notice Sherlock’s reaction.  Did he just say Mummy?  Surely not….that must be code for…something.

“It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft” Sherlock snaps.

So, no, Mummy was code for, well, just that.  Their Mother.  

Jesus fucking Christ.  There are two of them!  Both as ridiculously dramatic, and childish, as the other, but this one, this…Mycroft, (Seriously, what were their parents thinking when they named their kids), holds a position in the British Government.  How much of a position is apparently up for debate.

Sherlock takes his leave, and I, just for peace of mind, confirm that yes, Mycroft is his brother, and yes, it is just out of brotherly concern that he wants him watched over, and I come to a conclusion that yes, Mycroft is a bit of a tosser before I join Sherlock where I decide that decisions made in the last twenty-four hours were definitely the right ones.  I definitely need Sherlock Holmes in my life.


	2. Hope Where There Is No Hope To Be Had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is noticing Sherlock's odd behaviour and it really isn't helping him get over his obsession with the man who is married to his work, as if that is even possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this chapter will seem incomplete, or not really make sense as it is a round up of chapters 2 through to half of chapter 8 of ‘The Seduction of one John H Watson’, but from John’s POV. If you haven’t read that fic yet I suggest you give it a go!

~~~~~~~~~~

Is that lip balm?  I am sure that was lip balm.  Did Sherlock just balm up his lips?  At the scene of a murder and in front of half of Scotland Yard’s homicide team.  I am not staring, I am not staring.  I am staring.  Jesus fucking Christ.  This man is going to be the death of me.  As if I don’t already have enough problems not looking at those god damned hands or that fucking mouth.  Just.  Fuck.

I have been living with the man for three months and after that clear rejection during the Study in Pink, (quite a catchy name for my blog title, if I do say so myself), I have been doing everything possible to not become more attracted to him.  It hasn’t been easy and I have gone from an optimistic ‘ _I think I might be open to a relationship with this guy’_ to a desperate ‘ _my life will never be fully complete without him in it_ ’.  I can now sympathise with love-sick teenagers, because that is exactly how I feel. 

In the time I have known Sherlock, he still manages to surprise me, every day, and not necessarily for the better.  Like today for example.  I drag my gaze away from his mouth and look to the dead body hanging from an old oak just so my mutinous penis, which is starting to twitch, doesn’t actually stand to attention.  Donovan already thinks Sherlock gets off on this stuff, and as usual her thoughts are wrong.  It really won’t do if she sees me walking around with tented trousers. 

It would be alright if I could kid myself into thinking that there was a chance but the guy hadn’t been kidding that night at Angelo’s when he said he was married to his work, (unlike that time in the lab when he said he went days without speaking.  I am still yet to witness that).  He literally lives for the chase, and not just the mad dash around London, no.  He needs the chase of those elusive answers, the answer to the puzzles.  He throws himself wholly and fully into it, if the case is interesting enough.  And when there is no case he experiments.  God, the experiments he does are mind boggling and most of the time, quite frankly, useless, but he doesn’t stop until he has reached his goal.  And then there are the days when he does nothing, because there is nothing to do.  Those are days that I like to imagine that we could be curled up on the couch together while I try and secretly guess the end of the movie before Sherlock spits it out, or I envision us walking around Regent’s Park watching people as Sherlock makes me laugh with ridiculous deductions.  Those are the worst days because they let my mind wander and that is apparently a dangerous thing for me to do because it lets me hope when there is no hope to be had.

In the three months that I have lived with Sherlock Holmes I have learned that he is moody, driven, entertaining, can sulk so hard that a three year old would be impressed, is precise about the work, but careless when it comes to himself.  Except for grooming.  He looks immaculate no matter what he is wearing or however long it has been since he decided to shower, (so far the longest time is four days, and that was only because Mrs Hudson had threatened to drag him into the bathroom, strip him down and scrub him clean herself).  And every now and then, despite his confidence and abrasiveness and self-assuredness, a little piece of vulnerability seeps through.  I have seen this, only briefly, on only a few occasions.  Once when his brother had come around to entice Sherlock into a case, which Sherlock declined.  Mycroft had not taken it well and had brought up several of Sherlock’s failings.  A brief glimmer of self-loathing showed through before he turned the tables, flinging an insult at Mycroft’s inability to control his eating habits…again.  Another instant was when Sherlock had failed to solve a case before a sixteen year old girl took her own life.  He stopped working for three hours, just sitting on the couch staring at the fire place, before his self-pity abated and he threw himself into the case with more determination than before.  It also shows through when he is tired and run down and Donovan calls him Freak.  She hasn’t done it in a few weeks because the last time she did it, just after we had finished the case involving the aforementioned sixteen year old girl, I had stepped in very close to her and lowered my voice to a low growl and told her exactly what I thought of her ability to a job she had been trained for, yet still needed assistance from an “amateur” as she liked to put it and that maybe she should be a bit more appreciative of those who are actually making her job easier.  She had paled and gave a curt nod before turning and quickly walking away.

And the violin.  I could listen to him forever playing anything on that thing, (except for when Mycroft is around.  Then the sounds that instrument produces sets my nerves on edge), and to watch him play is mesmerising.  He gets lost in the moment, his body sways and his fingers dance over the finger board squeezing beautiful notes from the strings.  I try not to watch those fingers because they lead to thoughts I try not to have, but my eyes are always drawn back to them.

I love how he is so knowledgeable and intelligent and naive all at the same time.  Sometimes I truly do wonder how he survived on his own for thirty four years, and then he is rude, arrogant and downright childish and oh, god, does he piss me off.  But it doesn’t stop me from being fascinated, enthralled, attracted….addicted to the man and I always want more, but I know that I cannot have it, so I go on dates, trying to replace my want for Sherlock Holmes for something more attainable.

First there was Kayla.  She left when she found out that I was not a high earning specialist, but just a lowly GP.  We don’t keep on contact.  Then there was Sarah.  After almost getting her killed on our first date by Chinese drug smugglers we decided it would be better if we just settled on being friends.  Then there was Bonnie.  She had been fun.  But I made the mistake of letting her talk me into bringing her back to the flat, as her parents were staying at hers and it was sort of a mood killer.  The night had surprisingly gone well but when she left in the morning it was to Sherlock attacking a uterus with a blowtorch.  She had called it off, claiming that my best friend was a psychopath and a freak.  I agreed that it was best that we didn’t continue our relationship.  After her there was Tzara.  She was fantastic.  Been then she had been deported back to Pretoria to face crimes of an undisclosed nature.  Mycroft, the prick wouldn’t elaborate. 

So far, more attainable hasn’t worked so I decided to go with completely ignoring any feelings towards Sherlock that Sherlock would find uncomfortable, but that is fucking impossible when he is seductively rubbing his lips together.  

~o~

I could fucking kill the prick.  I am trying, desperately hard, to focus on what Carmel is talking about.  Funny, pretty, intelligent Carmel, but due to the fact that I am surrounded by pink kittens and just  under an hour ago I had witnessed my flatmate make oral love to an éclair I really am having a hard time concentrating.  I mean. Really, what the fuck had that been about?  First he didn’t want breakfast, then he practically gave a banana a blow job and then the éclair.  What has gotten into the man?  I have just started to get this obsession under control when he goes and acts all weird, just after the case of the kidnapper of Kensal Green two weeks ago.  Since then he has been acting odd.  Well, odd for him.  First it was that god damn lip balm.  No wonder his lips look so smooth, (no, I am not thinking about that now!)  Then there was the licking of the lips, and as usual he didn’t just make a small job of that, no, it was a fucking West End production and if we are speaking of over the top performances now would be a good time to bring up the fucking pen fellating.  I still don’t know what to think of that, but it sends certain messages to my cock and due to the fact that my cock has decided to act like that of a fucking teenagers lately, those messages are not appreciated.  And then that leads us back to this morning.  

Somewhere between three months ago and two weeks ago, Sherlock Holmes has developed an oral fixation, and damned if it isn’t one of the hottest things ever. 

I am royally fucked.  

~o~  

I stare up at the dark ceiling and then clench my eyes shut, only to open them again, the dark being interspersed with tiny white dots floating in front of my vision for a few seconds before fading.  I am trying hard to not think of Sherlock.  It was just a small bit of flesh that was all.  I try to not see that smooth, pale skin stretching over the shoulder and curving up to that long neck.  God how I want to run my tongue along that neck and suck on the white flesh.  I close my eyes again, squeezing them so tight I feel a dull pain behind them.  It does nothing to help the erection that formed once I was in the safety of my own room.  I had managed to keep it at bay for the entire movie, thinking about other things and sitting as far away from Sherlock as possible, but once I was in the privacy of my own room all bets were off.

Skin. That is all it was.  A shoulder, a collarbone.  There was nothing to it.  Nothing erotic about it.  Everyone has skin and I see large amounts of it every day.  I groan as I rub my hands over my face.  This isn’t helping.  I need to stop thinking about it and focus my attention on something else.  Like maybe Mr Habberforths abscess.  That had been quite disgusting, and the smell was putridly vile.  Sherlock would have loved it.  I groan again.  This has to stop.  It really does.  He was a frequent thought of mine on a regular basis beforehand, but lately he has been a constant thought and it is very distracting.  At least I haven’t taken to becoming aroused at work.  That would really be a bit not good.

I roll over and try and get some sleep.  

~o~  

I had been trying so hard to delete the blood bath that we had just exited from that I didn’t notice that Sherlock was removing his shirt until it was half way off.  God, that was a nice sight.  Was he talking to me?

“What are you doing?” I am horrified that I have been staring and not paying attention.  There was no way he didn’t notice that.  Fuck.  I need to get this under control.

He wants my jacket. “Right…yes…jacket.”  Yes, I can do that.  I quickly slide my jacket off and hand it over, where he promptly slides it on and zips it up.  Sherlock is wearing my jacket and despite it being too short in the arms he still looks fucking fantastic.  I bite my bottom lip and look out the window.  I can’t look at him.  Can’t run the risk of getting hard while he is sitting right next to me.  I am not sure if he says anything else as I am concentrating on the buildings and people that blur past us as the taxi drives along.  

~o~  

Nobody eats like that.  Ever.  This has to be some sort of fucked up social experiment, but damned if I can drag my eyes away.  There is Sherlock, stretched out on the couch and eating left over Indian as if it is a fucking form of foreplay.  I try to concentrate on the crossword puzzle before me but Sherlock’s hands, absently rubbing his chest while he chews the food in his mouth, are very distracting.  Not to mention the way he stretches his neck back as he swallows the food, nor the way his jaw moves slowly as he chews the food.  Fuck it.  The whole thing is an erotic play and extremely out of character for Sherlock Holmes.  Which is why I am convinced it is some sort of twisted experiment.  Sometime in the last month or so my attraction to Sherlock has become so obvious to the detective that he is now playing on it to see….well, I am not sure what results he is after but I am not playing the game.  After a few moments of thinking to myself I realise that he is no longer eating, but just lying there, eyes closed, hands resting on his stomach.  And I have another erection.  I internally sigh and get up before the detective opens his eyes and notices anything.  “I’m done for the night” I announce as I make my way to the stairs. “You’ll want to put that top in the wash tonight, otherwise it will stain.  Night.”  And I continue up to my room where I completely strip off and slip into bed.  This erection isn’t going away, no matter how much I want it to.  I suppose I could have had a cold shower, but due to the fact I had one not even three hours ago it would seem a bit odd, so there is only one way to deal with it. 

My hand reaches under the covers and circles the base of my cock, giving it a quick squeeze before pulling up.  It travels back down and then back up again, gently tugging the foreskin over the head before making its way back down.  I do this a few times trying to visualise one of the many women I have met but every time I think of one Sherlock’s image chases her out of my head.  It is inevitable.  This wank is going to be dedicated to my flatmate, just like the last few have.  My hand continues it’s up and down journey, moving faster and faster.  _I see that long neck, stretching, that narrow chest, smooth and pale and I see those fingers, dancing across his skin, circling his nipples, his back arching, teeth digging into his bottom lip.  I see his spare hand dragging through his hair, tugging on his curls.  All the things I would like to do to Sherlock are being played out in my head but are being played out by his own hands.  My breath becomes more ragged as I see his hand dip below the waistband of his pyjamas and start to mirror my own hand.  In my head I can hear that deep voice moaning out sounds of pleasure, moaning out my name_.  My hand moves faster and my hips buck up thrusting my cock into the tight ring of my fingers.  I drag my foreskin over the now sensitive head one more time before the ball of tension in my lower gut breaks, pleasure coursing through my body and I let out a low guttural moan as warm ejaculate spills over my wrist and onto my stomach.  

~o~  

I am sure he is trying to kill me.  Positive of it, actually.

Sherlock Holmes would have to be the only arsehole that I know who wears trousers so fucking tight it is impossible to wear underwear underneath, (actually, all of his clothes are ridiculously tight, more so than normal, lately, I am sure of it).  How the fuck am I going to fix this up.  The answer?  Awkwardly.  

“Can you put pants on before we start this” I ask hoping it doesn’t sound like I am pleading even though that is essentially what I am doing. 

“Nope, just get on with it John” comes the response, and even though it is muffled I am sure the prick is smiling at how uncomfortable this is making me, and I know he knows it is making me uncomfortable.  I let out a small sigh of frustration and try find a position that doesn’t have me looking or touching Sherlock’s arse.  Really, the shirt leaves nothing to the imagination, but I suppose I should be glad that he pulled it down to start off with.  I find a position that has me angled awkwardly with my arms resting across the tops of his thighs.  It is not ideal, but it works and I start to stitch up the gash on his leg.  I can honestly say that this is the first time I have gotten hard from stitching someone up. 

I close the wound, having to go slowly as my palms are sweating from resisting the urge to lift those shirt tails and bury my face in that lush arse, but I eventually finish and quickly gathering up my supplies I tell Sherlock to take it easy, not that he will listen to me, and that I will check the wound in a weeks’ time.  I can only hope that he will be wearing pants at the time. 

I then quickly make my way to the bathroom where I need to take extra time in order to deal with the very hard erection that is clearly not going away and I have no intentions of trying to banish it with cold water.

After I have released the aching need that had balled itself in the base of my cock, barely managing to stifle what would have been an alarmingly loud cry, I sink to my knees and let the hot water wash over my body, relaxing my muscles.  A few minutes later I stand up and turn the water off.  Drying off I take my robe off of the back of the door and pull it on, tying it up as I open the bathroom door.

“Goodnight, John” comes familiar deep voice to my left.  I look and instantly my lungs cease to work.  Sherlock is just walking into his bedroom, shirt rucked up around his waist.  Just as he shuts the door he pulls it down covering his bare arse.  And holy fuck.  Despite the fact that it should be impossible I am hard again.  

~o~  

The air is cool and brisk as we make our way down Baker Street heading towards god-knows-where.  I was surprised when Sherlock offered to go for a walk and I am expecting to have to break out in chase against some criminal that Sherlock has been tracking, but there is also a possibility that he does just want to go for a walk.  For the past two days his level of oddness has upped even more.  He has been being helpful.  Making tea, cooking dinner that was surprisingly edible.  He has even done two Tesco runs.  I want to be grateful but it has left me rather suspicious and a bit nervous.

“So, what is with all of the….consideration and…stuff, lately?” I ask, not looking at Sherlock, as we wander for one and a half blocks in the general direction of Regents Park.

“I don’t know what you mean” Sherlock replies sounding unconvincingly naïve to the situation.  

“Sherlock” I tell him with a chuckle.  “You cleaned the house, you do your own washing, hell you even cooked last night.  It was really good by the way.  Now that I know you can do it, I do expect it more often” I will be hoping only to die in vain, but hey.  “Hell, Sherlock, you have even been making me tea.  You never make tea.  If you wake up before me you wait until I get up so I can make you tea.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, but I just want to make sure everything is alright.” 

We walk along in silence and just as I am deciding that Sherlock is going to ignore my observations he speaks.   “I just thought I would give a try at being a more considerate person.  It has recently been brought to my attention that I am often lazy and selfish.”

I can’t stop the laugh as it leaves my mouth.  “Only recently.  From what I can gather you have been like it all your life.”

I am glad that he smiles at this and doesn’t take offence, although, one thing I have learnt is that Sherlock really doesn’t offend easily.  “Maybe I have only just started listening” he tells me.  I’m not buying that for a second.  “But don’t get used to it.  It really is a lot of hard work, and I am not sure if I can keep it up for much longer.”  He finishes with a smile.

I chuckle again.  “Well, thank god for that.  You were starting to make me nervous.”

We walk a bit longer and I take the risk in moving just a bit closer hoping that he doesn’t notice, or that if he does he won’t think anything of it.

After a lap of the park and a mad dash to get a taxi to escape the rain we are home, dried and warm and Sherlock is helping me fold my washing.  As much as I should not be surprised that he is doing it I still can’t help thinking that something is up.  I am pulled out of my thoughts when I notice what Sherlock has in his hands.  God, I hope I’m not blushing.

“Red, John.  I never took you for someone with such vivid taste in underwear” he muses.  I quickly reach for the bright red pants in his hands but the lanky git holds them out of my reach.  

“I do believe you are blushing Doctor Watson” he laughs, confirming my previous concern.  “Give ‘em…here…prick” I laugh as I take another swipe for the offending item of clothing.  I give up after another swipe and go back to folding my clothes.   

“They are very comfortable” I tell him as he places them on a pre-made pile of my clothing.  “And I happen to like the colour.”  I don’t think I could bare the ridicule if he ever found out that it was a kink I had picked up in uni when my ex would go a bit mad and get a bit freaky whenever I wore red pants.  He’d probably think it was lame.  If Sherlock Holmes were to have anything resembling a kink it would probably be something like having sex while being covered in live bees.  He doesn’t comment anymore on the pants and I assume that the conversation is over until he pulls the next item of clothing out of the basket.   “Really, John.  How many pairs of red pants does one man need?”  

~o~  

I think I am going mad.  Again?  Still?  Maybe a different sort of madness.  I am not sure any more, but I could swear that Sherlock has been touching me more.  Nothing overly noticeable but small touches such as the accidental brush of fingers as we pass each other objects or knees accidentally knocking against each other in the back of cabs or his hand on the small of my back as I walk through a door, and damned if I haven’t started reciprocating.  It’s not conscious, it just happens, and when I realised I was doing it I was horrified.  Sherlock doesn’t like touching people or people touching him, unless there is something in it for him.  The only exception to this rule, that I have noticed, is Mrs Hudson, but then again, she is an exception to a lot of rules.  But then there is the squeezing of my shoulder every night before I go to bed.  The last thing that I really need before I go to bed at night is Sherlock initiating physical contact.  I know that it is completely innocent, either that or he is conducting an experiment, but it is really not helping with the fact that lately I am waking up every morning with a fucking erection all thanks to one Sherlock fucking Holmes. 

And I am concerned.  As a general rule Sherlock is lithe, cat-like, graceful and will practically defy gravity in order to stay upright and elegant looking.  He wouldn’t do anything as pedestrian as stumbling but the past few days I seem to be patching him more and more and most of the injuries should have been easy to avoid. 

I sit him down on the couch and hand him an ice pack, hoping that the bruising on his hip will only be minimal.  It really is in an unfortunate spot and he did hit the corner of that book shelf with quite a force, not that he let it stop him from cornering the nun.  Before I stand up I place my hand on his knee, without even thinking about it.   “Maybe try and be a bit more careful, yeah” I say.  He replies with a tight smile and I get up to make a cup of tea, needing to put a distance between myself and his leg before I can no longer physically stop myself from sliding my hand up that leg carrying out the dream that was interrupted last night due to the sound of books being tossed over my mad flatmates shoulder as he decided that everyone he picked up was not actually the one he was looking for.  Tea does not stop me from mentally carrying out that fantasy though.  

~o~  

I wake up to a throbbing ache in my head.  I try to move and regret the decision straight away.  The throbbing ache turns into a roaring pain.  Fucking Mickey Stenson.  The crafty bastard had two henchmen instead of Sherlock’s estimated one.  If I ever get the chance to thank that bastard for this particular raging headache it will be via a fucking crowbar to his fucking knee caps.

According to Sherlock’s ramblings (and they _are_ ramblings)I have been out of it for an hour.  For the following three hours, until Greg shows up, Sherlock feeds me some of the most useless information I have ever heard, all starting with the effects of snorting cocaine.  Of course he would know that.  Obviously that was his drug of choice.  God forbid he do something half-arsed, like smoking a joint every now and then.  No Sherlock bloody Holmes had to dive straight in with heavy drugs.  But that is not what makes me angry.  Nor is it that he knows how to cut the drugs with benzocaine.  Nope, not at all.  It is not even that he feels the need to tell me about jellyfish, the quite frankly disturbing mating habits of flatworm nor is it the fact that he was about to go into great detail about hedgehog quills, (seriously, why do people insist on talking to me about hedgehogs?).  I am not even angry that the bastard told me that he had messaged Greg to tell him what we were doing, when clearly he hadn’t.  No.  The reason I am so fucking angry is because I believed him.  Again.  And for nearly five months now I have sat back and watched those two fucking idiot detectives try and prove which one is better.  Did it not occur to them that if they actually co-operated with each other things would run much smoother.   No.  So I spent nearly four hours tied up.  I ache from head to toe, my head feels like there is a monster truck rally going on inside of it, I am hungry and tired and in desperate need of a shower and I swear to god if one more person mentions one more thing about this fucking case I am going to fucking lose it.

After I let both Sherlock and Greg know exactly what I think on the matter I march on upstairs and outside to catch a taxi, ignoring the call of Sargent Donovan.  If she wants any answers Sherlock has them all.  Including anything she may want to know concerning how to tell the sex of a horse by how many fucking teeth it has, because Sherlock can’t do it the easy way and look for the fucking gargantuan penis that may or may not be between its back legs. 

Once home I head straight for the shower because a) it has been a good forty-eight hours since I had one and b) I am really hoping that if I don’t run any cold water at all the extremely hot water will help loosen my screaming muscles.  It does, but not by much.  When I leave the bathroom my mood doesn’t improve as there is Sherlock looking rather sheepish.  Good.  So he fucking well should. 

My bad mood dissipates as we sit in the lounge room sipping on tea.  He apologises.  I apologise.  He offers me a massage.  I really want to say no because to be honest I am that tired I am not sure if I could control what may happen with his hands all over me, but at the same time I am really, really, sore.  I go against my better judgement and agree, even after he tells me to strip from the waist up and lay on his bed.  This cannot possibly end well, but if I have any regrets they can wait until tomorrow.   The man’s hands are magic.  They are sinful.  Every dream, every fantasy, every mildly inappropriate thought I have ever had of him is running through my mind as those hands rub and roll the skin of my back and shoulders.  Those long fingers pinching and kneading the flesh and muscle.  I can’t stop the noises that are coming out of my mouth.  I wish I could but between the relief and the fantasy brought on by those hands I have lost a certain degree of self-control.  All I can say is that I am glad that I am lying on my stomach.  But as much as the massage is turning me on it is also doing exactly what Sherlock said that it would.  It is relaxing me and the more relaxed I become the less noises I make and the less noises that I make the more lethargic I get and before I know it I have fallen asleep.  

~o~  

Jesus, that conference was shit.  Twenty minutes and I should be home.  It was bad enough that the train was running late at arrival.  I had initially signed up to the conference to get away from Sherlock, hoping some time away would help get rid of these feelings.  Instead I just kept thinking about how I wanted to be home with him even if he has been acting odd for the past couple of months.  So I had just spent the past three days in Harrogate listening to some old codger in a tweed jacket and mustard tie, (yes he wore both all three days), twaddle on about Infectious Disease Genomics.  They could have typed it up into a four page document and sent it to me where I could have felt uncomfortable while Sherlock pretended not to stare at me while I perused through the information.  Even the coffee had been sub-standard, and I won’t even mention the tea. 

I sigh as I rest my head back and close my eyes.  I feel so confused.  I don’t want to be around him because sometimes what I feel for him is so strong, especially lately, that I really just want to give into some of his cues, but if I do that it won’t just be for a bit of relief or fun.  I would give him all of me and I honestly don’t think I could handle the rejection when his little experiment was over and he didn’t want me anymore.  I wouldn’t be able to go back to what we have so it is best to just leave it the way it is and hope that over time these feelings fade to a normal level of awe.  I am sure I will eventually find a nice girl to settle down with.  I did briefly think about looking for another guy, but so far the only appeal in that area has been Sherlock.  I even tried ignoring the bulk of his texts, turning my phone completely off for hours at a time while I was away.  It was the hardest thing I have had to do in a long while and when the last part of the conference finished today I couldn’t get out of there quick enough, eager to get back home to see Sherlock.

I message Sherlock to let him know that I have arrived back in London.  No reply. 

I message to see if we need milk, because I really want a cup of decent tea and I am not going to be happy if I get home and there is no milk.  Still no answer, so I head to the closest supermarket and grab milk, and a couple of other supplies. 

Finally I get home and I cannot wait to finally get upstairs.  I won’t even care if there are pig-entrails in the bathtub.  Again.  I just really need to see Sherlock. 

“I’m home” I call as I open the door to our flat.  There is nothing.  Only silence.  I place my case by the front door and make my way into the kitchen.  It is clean.  There is nothing going off in the bin and the table is completely clean and clear of everything except for a little yellow post-it note in the centre of the table.  Placing my bag of groceries on the table I pick the note up and read it.  

**_Ivybridge.  Case.  Hopefully won’t be more than two days  SH_ **

I frown at the little piece of yellow paper in my hand.  Ivybridge.  Where is that?  And what case.  Am I supposed to follow?  I do a quick check on my laptop to find out exactly where Ivybridge is.  In Devon apparently, and according to Wikipedia not much happens in Ivybridge. 

I send a text off to Sherlock to see if my assistance is needed and set about putting the groceries away as I wait for the reply, not that he has replied to any of my other texts.  I won’t take long to repack and make my way back to the train station.  I could be there by eight o’clock tonight, maybe earlier, depending on the train schedule.

Disappointment spreads through my body as I read the reply.  I am not needed and he will be gone for another day.  Maybe two.  Maybe this is a good thing, just what I need to get over this crush, (obsession).  I open the fridge and put the milk away only to find a full carton in the fridge.  It won’t go to waste.  I send back another text thanking Sherlock for the clean table and the milk and then turn off my phone until I go to bed, determined not to message him for the rest of the night.

The following morning I feel no better, but at least work calls me in to do a half shift.  That should take my mind off of things.  I set about getting things ready for my shower when Mrs Hudson pops up. 

“These arrived yesterday, dear” She says placing two small non-descript packages on the table.  “One’s for Sherlock.  I placed that one in the fridge just in case it was something that might, you know, go off.  The other one is yours dear.  Sorry I am only just bringing them up now.  I completely forgot about them.”

I thank her and pick up the parcels as she leaves.  I don’t know whether to laugh or be embarrassed.  Two, non-descript parcels, Sherlock’s is twice the size of mine, with the same return address.  I want to laugh, but I can feel my cheeks heating up.  I wonder what is in his.  Unconsciously my thumb starts scratching at the edge of the packaging.  Quickly I stop what I was doing and place the parcel on the mantel along with all the other mail that Sherlock refuses to open.  I’m sure he will open this one.  I chuckle when I remember that Mrs Hudson said she had kept it in the fridge.  I then pick up my parcel and turn it over in my hands, not sure if I want to open it or not.  I ordered it a week ago, after the massage, hoping it would help relieve some of the tension, but now I just feel even more tense.  And ridiculous.  I quickly take it up to my room and put it my top draw.  I will deal with it later. 

I come back downstairs and note that I seem to be drawn to Sherlock’s parcel, an unusual level of curiosity thrumming in my head.  I go to the mantel and pick up the parcel.  I hold it up to my ear and give it a little shake.  I’m not sure what I thought that would accomplish but it gave nothing away.  I let out a frustrated huff.  “This is absurd” I say to the skull and then go and throw the parcel onto Sherlock’s bed and send him a message letting him know it had arrived.  I don’t know why I did that.  It’s not like he can do anything about from Ivybridge.

The day drags.  I send Sherlock more messages than I ever have, and he only responds to a few of them.  My shift at the clinic is horrid, as all I want to do is message Sherlock.  When I get home I am ambushed by Mrs Hudson before I have even shut the front door.  Her bathroom shelf had fallen down and she needed help putting it back up.  As I step into her bathroom I feel slightly dizzy.  It is pink.  And not just a bit here or there.  The whole fucking room is pink.  It is like the sugarplum fairy exploded in there.  The porcelain is pink, the tiles are pink, the blind is pink and so are the towels.  Even her toothbrush is pink.  I never took Mrs Hudson for a pink lady.  Floral maybe, but definitely not pink.  After her pink shelf is back up on the pink wall she offers to make me a sandwich.  I accept and we find ourselves sitting in front of the telly watching the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.  Why the fuck does the faun need a scarf but not a shirt?  I don’t question the fact that I am pondering questions where the word faun appears in the middle them.  With lunch finished and several more texts fired off to Sherlock I decide to head out for a bit and maybe pay the electric bill that Sherlock didn’t pay while I was away.  I am not even half way down the block when a familiar black car pulls up beside me.

“You know, I was just thinking to myself, it’s been an okay day today.  I wonder what could make it a great day, and here you are” I say with sarcastic cheer as the window slowly slides down revealing the Holmes brother I don’t want to see.

“I’m sure, Doctor Watson” drawled the silky smooth voice of Mycroft Holmes.  “I was wondering if I might have a word.”

Despite knowing that that was a polite order I don’t head straight towards the car.  “Maybe not today, I was just….”

“Get in the car Doctor Watson.” And there is the impolite order.  I open the door and slide into the car. 

“Different seats” I notice giving a little bounce.  “You’ve redecorated.” I try not to grin at the impatient little hum. 

“I was wondering what you could tell me about Ivybridge?” He questions in his patronising clipped voice.

I should have known that was what this was about.  To be honest I don’t really know.  Sherlock has given nothing away about the case.   The only thing I know about Ivybridge is that it is in Devon and I only found that out yesterday, but I am not feeling in an overly generous mood.  “Ivybridge” I hum out sounding thoughtful.  “I think I’ve heard of….yeah, it is where Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner go every Thursday to play Bridge” I tell him.

“No, Doctor Wat….”

“Mrs Hudson was just telling me the other day how she had been on a winning streak since picking up the little Italian grocer as a partner” I lie, cutting him off.  “It’s quite an interesting game, you know, developed in Romania in the late 1700’s.  Three decks of cards, and originally a goat, were used, but early last century the goat was dropped.  Kept eating the cards.  You have four pairs and two single players, the dynamics of the game are quite intersti….”

“Doctor Watson, I really do not have time for this, what I want to know is why my brother has gone down to Ivybridge.”  I can tell that his patience is wearing thin.  He must still be having trouble with the Russian spy and the spider monkey.  Like I could give a shit.

“Sherlock’s taken up bridge?” I ask, sounding confused.  The impatient hum has turned into a sharp exhale of breath.  Must be hard sometimes for the British Government to keep his shit together.  The fact that there is a slither of hope that I may be the cause for him to completely lose it is quite satisfying.

“No, Doctor Watson, my brother has not taken up bridge.  He is in Ivybridge and I would like to know why.”

“Oh” I reply.  “Is that where he is?”

Mycroft then performed an eye roll that would have put Sherlock to shame.  “Do you honestly expect me to believe that you do not know where Sherlock is?”

I give a shrug.  “I was at a conference.  When I came home he was gone and all that was left was a note to say he would be back in a day or two.  He’s a big boy.  I didn’t think he needed a minder.”

“My brother loathes leaving London for the most pressing reasons.  Pray tell me, what do you think could be of interest in a small town with a population of less than 12 000 people.”

“He has been bored lately.  Maybe he thought a change of scenery would be better than dismantling the kitchen sink…again.” That particular memory brings a small frown to my face.

“Hmmm.  Maybe” was the unconvincing reply.

“Well, then” I indicate that I’d like to exit the car and Mycroft signals his driver to pull over.  “If that’s all” I say opening the car door.

"I’m sure we will see each other soon” Mycroft drawls in reply.

“And I am so looking forward to that” I mutter as I exit the car and I know I shouldn’t be surprised but I am when I see that I have been dropped off in the exact same spot as where I was picked up.  I head off to finish the pedestrian task of paying bills manually (one day I will learn how to set it up electronically) and then head off home to cook dinner.

The night passes rather uneventful.  Work calls asking me to do an early shift tomorrow, only four hours.  I accept.  Mike messages me to see if I want to catch up for a quick one down at the pub.  I go to answer yes, but find that I really don’t feel like company tonight.  Well, I do, but that person is not around at the moment, so I message no.

After dinner has finished I tidy up the kitchen and shower then settle down on the couch to watch something, excited that I can do so without Sherlock complaining or prematurely revealing the end of the movie.  There is nothing on.  I pick up the novel I am reading, _The Book Thief_.  I am only a few chapters away from the end but can’t seem to get into it tonight.  After reading the same page five times and still not getting it I finally give up and look at the clock.  It is nearly 11:30.  I should go to bed.  I have to be at work in a little over seven hours.  I pick up my phone and look at the screen.  No missed calls, no unanswered texts.  I can’t help the clenching feeling in my gut at the fact that Sherlock hasn’t messaged me at all, even just to bounce ideas off of.  I get up and go to the bathroom and brush my teeth and realise that I am not particularly tired.  I pick up my phone again.  If Sherlock were here he would be annoying me and although I would be getting frustrated, I wouldn’t be bored.  Without another thought I send a message to Sherlock.   Just one word.

**Awake?**

Not even two minutes later and my phone chirps that I have received a message.  (I do envy Sherlock and the way his fingers race over the keys of both his phone and laptop keyboard.)

**Did you honestly expect me not to be?  SH**

I read the response.  Typical Sherlock response.  The answer to that is No.  I didn’t expect Sherlock to be asleep.  He was on a case.  He didn’t eat or sleep.  And he didn’t do mindless conversation.  He didn’t do that even when he wasn’t on a case, so why would he now?  So what in the hell was I doing?  I should leave it there and just go to bed and try to go to sleep, but I don’t.  Instead I type out:

**No**

I think about what else I should add to that, but I honestly can’t so I hit send and stand up to make my way up to bed.  I am just turning off the kitchen light and am making my way over to the lamp in the living room when my phone starts ringing.  At first I just look at it in my hand.  Sherlock’s name has come up in the caller ID.  He never calls.  Unless something is wrong.

“Sherlock?” I ask in greeting, still unsure as to why he is calling.

“Who else would be calling from my phone, John?” He sounds bored though, not worried.

“No, sorry, you just don’t usually ring. I thought something might be wrong” I am still concerned that he is ringing at all, although his behaviour these past couple of months has been all over the place.

“I can assure you John, all is well here in Ivybridge. I was actually ringing to see if you were okay” I don’t know what to say at that.  Sherlock was worried that something was wrong with me.  I don’t have to worry about a response as he continues.  “It’s not like you to send one worded texts that are headed in no general direction.”

I place my face in my hand and sigh.  It wasn’t my intention to pull Sherlock away from his case unnecessarily.  I was just bored and pining like a bloody teenager.  I really needed to get this under control.  “Sorry, I guess I was just bored. Sorry, I should let you get back to the case.”

I brace myself for the wasting-my-time speech and am surprised with what comes next. “No, it’s okay. The case is finished”

“Oh. So, you will be home soon?” my mood instantly picks up.  The case is finished.  That means he will be coming home soon.

“Yes, tomorrow morning.  My train should get in around eleven-ish.”

I push down the excitement I am feeling.  I don’t want to sound overly eager. “So, an interesting case was it?”

“Not really.” He replies sounding bored.  I have missed that bored tone.  “I was helping out a friend of my parents. Family heirlooms going missing. The butler did it.”

The butler.  Really? I don’t believe that for a second.  “And it took you, Sherlock Holmes, two days to solve it?” I ask, sounding almost bemused.  

“Well, you know how it is” Sherlock replies a little bit too quickly.   “Wealthy families. Secrets. The lies they tell, John, it is horribly distracting.”

“Hmm” I don’t know about wealthy families, but one consulting detective is doing a pants job at it at the moment.  It is slightly amusing hearing him falter.  Obviously there is something about this case that he doesn’t want me to know, and I have managed to catch him out.  This could be fun.

Suddenly the topic has turned around to me.  A perfect Sherlock response to counter any conversation that makes him uncomfortable.  “Why are you home if you are so bored? Surely Graham or Mike are available for a pint or a game or a…whatever it is you do when you socialise.”

I huff out a small chuckle. “It’s Greg and we go for a pint while we watch the game, and yes, I am sure either or both are available, but, I dunno, I just didn’t feel like going out tonight.” I cringe at how wistful my voice sounds. 

“What about the telly. Surely there is something on there you can watch. And it is bound to be more fun without me ruining it for you.”

I let out a small hum. Obviously Sherlock wants to end the conversation.  I should have known that first message was a bad idea.  In fact, I did know that it was but I sent it anyway.  What was I thinking?  

“You are probably tired. I should go. I really shouldn’t have bothered you.” I say rubbing my hand over my face.  I suddenly feel tired.

“No, it is fine. It’s just we don’t usually…talk…like this. On the phone.” That was probably one of the unarticulated things I have ever heard Sherlock say. It’s good to know that I am not the only one out of sorts.  Maybe he is noticing my absence as well.

“I don’t think we have ever spent this much time apart” I tell him. 

“No, I don’t suppose we have” Sherlock confirms and then there is silence.  I am about to bid him goodnight when he talks again. “So, how was your day?”

I breathe out and then breathe in before I answer.  Sherlock has asked that a few times over the past couple of months and it still a bit unnerving that he does so., “Really not that interesting” I tell him. I recount my day to him and he is clearly pissed off when I mention his brother but he sounds almost happy at the thought of me messing with his brother’s head.  We then get onto the topic of Animal videos and Sherlock jokingly threatens to kick me out of the apartment.  Even though I know he doesn’t mean it, it still leaves an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.  The banter goes back and forth until reluctantly, I end the conversation. My heart does a little skip when I hear that Sherlock also sounds a bit sad at saying goodnight.

The following morning I send an email to Sherlock with an attached video about otters, (for some reason they remind me of him) and I forward the kitten video off to Mycroft.  I then write out my promise to Sherlock to do my best to stop sacrificing poor little kittens to Satan and sign it in Strawberry jam.  As much as I am sure Sherlock would be impressed if I signed my name in blood (it would probably be set to a pile of tests and analysis’) I am still not doing it.  Jam is the next best option.  I then head off to work with a bounce in my step and a bit of a whistle.  Sherlock would be home when I returned and that made the morning so much better.  

~o~  

I get out of the cab and head towards the front door after throwing the cabbie a handful of notes.  I really couldn’t give a shit if it was an over generous tip.  I just want to get upstairs and have a cup of tea and then not move for the rest of the day.  Work had started out the same way it always did.  Uneventful.  Then the call came saying there had been an explosion at a fire extinguisher factory of all places and I had spent the last six hours at the hospital tending to the unfortunate bastards who had got caught in the warehouse that had apparently not followed basic safety regulations in multiple areas, including an adequate amount of emergency exits.  And to make the day worse as I had jumped into the cab to get to the hospital I had received a text from Sherlock.

**Case, Possible 7.  Come at once  SH**

It had been ages since we had anything better than a five and I felt guilt surge up as I hated the fact that this emergency was preventing me from not only an interesting case, but also time with Sherlock.  I ignored the feeling as I sent a reply to Sherlock.

**Sorry.  Medical Crisis.  Can’t help just now.**

Finally I had done all I could for the unlucky bastards and am now home.  I let myself in, thankful that Mrs Hudson hadn’t come out for a quick chat.  I slowly make myself up the seventeen stairs and suddenly stop.  I’m sure I am hearing things that weren’t really there but it sounded like lust filled moans were coming from the kitchen.  I shake my head to clear it and go to open the living room door when I hear it again.

“Oh, that’s it.  Stick it right there” sounds from the other side of the door backed up by typical porn music.  Yep.  There was definitely porn playing in the flat.  Either that or Sherlock was having sex with someone to tacky porn music.  That thought leaves a hollow feeling in my stomach even though I know it is the most unlikely of situations.  As I am banishing those thoughts from my head the flat plunged into silence so I slowly make my way into the living room and hang up my jacket.  A quick look into the kitchen confirms that yes, Sherlock is watching porn and on closer inspection I note that yes, it is on my laptop.

“…Mine was too far away” is the mumbled response I get when I query Sherlock’s current activity.  Okay, I should have seen that one coming.  I have been living with Sherlock long enough now to know that in order to get a specific answer I first need to ask a specific question.

“Okay, let me ask it this way” I ask because as far as I am aware all interest Sherlock has in sex, if he has any at all,  he keeps to himself.  “Why are you watching porn at all?” Apparently this is the wrong thing to ask and as soon as it comes out of my mouth I regret it.

“Why not” Sherlock snaps, his gaze going from its laser like focus on the screen in front of him to a cold glare in my direction.  “Judging  by the viruses you had on your computer, which I fixed by the way, you watch enough of it yourself” I wince, more than once, at his words, mainly because the message I sent was not the one I was meant to convey and also because he was probably right.  I watch way too much porn.  In my defence, he does ruin most of my dates though.  But that isn’t the point.

“Sorry” I say, not able to bring myself to look at him.  “I didn’t mean, I just…What I meant” and I chose my words carefully in order to make sure I don’t get it wrong this time, “Was why here, in the kitchen, in the middle of the day.  And thank you for the viruses” I quickly add on, because now I am aware why my laptop had being doing some weird shit this past week.  And instantly I feel bad because I had automatically assumed that Sherlock had done something to it.  God, I am such a fucking tool sometimes.

Sherlock seems to be happy to let things drop and goes onto explain the case, the possible 7 that I had missed, and I sort of find myself a bit glad that I had missed it.  Throughout my years as a doctor and a surgeon I had seen my fair share of injuries and medical conditions that involved the male genitalia.  I even once had a patient who had tried to give himself a circumcision.  I thought that had been bad.  What Sherlock had just described made me feel a bit ill and I have to seriously fight the urge to protectively cover my own nads.

I revert my attention away from the horrors of un-anesthetised castration and focus back on the screen.  It takes a few seconds for me to try and understand what I am actually seeing.  “What the fuck is he doing?”  The blonde haired one is currently pulling his foreskin over the other man’s penis and just going for it.  How is it even possible that his foreskin is that stretchy, I mean, I know some are bigger than others, but Jesus Christ.  What would that even feel like?  I continue to watch, in fascination as the two men continue ‘ _Docking’_ , as it is apparently called, and I ignore the way that my penis seems to also find it slightly fascinating.  Sherlock closes the video and opens up another one which also includes the poor victim.  He continues to tell me the guys backstory as he closes down that video and opens up yet another one and it occurs to me that these are good quality videos, not your average every day free website videos. 

“Hang on” I say, hoping against all hope that Sherlock is not using my credit card again.  “These are not your average run of the mill websites. You have what?” and I count the little red and golden tabs on the screen, “Eight open.  This must be costing you a fortune.”  In less than ten seconds a gold credit card is pushed into my hands. 

“Courtesy of _My_ Bank” Is murmured and the meaning of the over pronounced ‘ _My_ ’ becomes clear as I read the name on the little metal card.  Mycroft Holmes.  I let out a small laugh but it is quickly cut off when I realise that the last time Sherlock used this card, I was abducted off of the streets and interrogated. “Why didn’t he cancel it after last time?”  I ask handing the card back to Sherlock.

“He did.  This is another one.  And I am sure he uses his cards for much seedier things” I am informed.  That image sends an unpleasant ripple down my spine.  “I don’t want to know” I reply.

Sherlock then comes across Flynn Hudson and instantly knows that he is the man we are looking for.  He rattles off his reasoning and I can’t help the admiration I feel for this man sweep over me.  Unfortunately that admiration, mixed in with the sounds of two men going for it, sends rather insistent messages to my cock which now refuses to be ignored.  As Sherlock is watching yet another shot of Flynn and Blade doing violently intimate things to each other I make my way to the bathroom with one goal in mind.  To get rid of my erection without my all-observing flatmate knowing about it, and that means physical release is not on the cards.  A cold shower it is then. 

The shower was predictably effective and when I exit the bathroom I am glad to see that Sherlock is no longer watching porn.  I revert to my default setting and make us both some tea and settle in my chair to read the newspaper, thankful that it hadn’t been dissected as of yet.

“You seemed shocked by some of those things” comes Sherlock’s voice from the other side of the paper.  I hadn’t actually heard him come and sit in his chair and was surprised by the question.

“Hmmm?” I ask, looking at the page, now lowered to my lap.  A brief royal scandal, complaints about the price of milk going up and a small article on the decline of the tufted duck in London Parks.  Nothing at all shocking.  Not even mildly interesting actually. 

“The videos.  You seemed genuinely shocked at some of the activities.” He clarifies.

I shrug and go back to reading my paper.  It wasn’t that I was shocked, per se, just….newly educated.  “Guess I have just never looked into it.”

I sigh at the following insinuation that Sherlock throws at me of being in the army for so long that I must know all about gay sex.  I set him straight, assuming that will be the end of the conversation.   Of course it’s not.

“So you never thought to experiment with guys then?”

Again, I lower my paper and look to Sherlock.  Do I reveal things I have never told anyone?  Do I throw out my usual, ‘Not Gay’ shield?  Obviously Sherlock is interested in….something, I’m still not sure what.  Maybe if I give him what he wants I will either find out what he is up to or he will finally go back to his normal self and I can stop worrying that everything is some convoluted test to see how far he can push me before I get committed to somewhere that has soft walls.

“Honestly, yes, every now and then I thought about it, but the urge was never strong enough to do anything about it.” Oh, how times have changed, but I don’t tell him that.  Instead I ask, “What about you?”  And as usual I am given a half-arsed answer that doesn’t really answer anything at all.  I go back to reading the paper, again, assuming that the conversation is over.  Again, I am wrong.  Instead of a peaceful, comfortable silence I am treated to a brief, edited history of Sherlock’s sex life and damned if my penis isn’t vying for attention again.  I readjust my position in my seat, angling the newspaper in my hands down and pray to God that my face isn’t as pink as it feels.  Thankfully Sherlock changes topic and we spend the afternoon discussing pointless facts and embarrassing memories from our youth.  It is a surprisingly comfortable and interesting afternoon.  One that I am pretty sure won’t be repeated in the near future, if ever, so I hold onto all of the facts that Sherlock, uncharacteristically, offers about himself and store them away for safe keeping.  The night concludes with Chinese take away and a double episode of Wire in the Blood before I head off to bed.

As I lay in the dark my mind wanders over all that I had learnt about Sherlock.  I try focusing on the fun things, the interesting things, but as things go in the dark, when you are on your own and harbouring lustful desires about the man you are currently thinking about, my mind gets stuck on the fact that at one stage Sherlock had been an exceedingly sexual person.  Apparently a right slut.

‘ _But you were much more likely to be a successful candidate if you were not female_ ’ ghosted through my mind and I swear there was a twinkle in his eye as he looked at me when he uttered those words.  I bite my lip, trying to will the erection away, but it isn’t working. 

If the desired results of Sherlock’s experiment is to have me completely throw away any doubts on my questioning sexuality and to become increasingly sexually frustrated throughout the duration of said experiment, then well done.  Mission fucking accomplished!

These thought and feelings and fucking erections were getting harder and harder (excuse the pun) to ignore and tonight certainly wasn’t going to be an exception.  Resigning myself to the fact that it was not going to go away I push my pyjama pants down so that my cock is free of any restraints.  I don’t even kid myself that the following action can be carried out to the thoughts of women and I instantly bring up images of Sherlock.  I will deal with the guilty feeling later.  Right now I just want to relieve the ache in my balls.  I think over some of the videos that we viewed today and one in particular gets stuck in my head. 

 _I think of Sherlock, spread out on my bed on his back. My body leaning over his as he gently strokes his cock, my mouth travelling down his body, tasting every inch of skin.  I lick and suck my way down his body, leaving marks to let anyone who would see them know that he. Is. Mine.  I continue moving down until my nose nudges the hand that is slowly working over his cock.  The hand stops what it is doing and settles itself on the back of my head.  Slowly I lick a stripe up the length of his cock, listening as his breathing picks up.  I then take the head into my mouth and suck, working my way down its length, taking in as much as I possibly can, using my hand to cover what my mouth can’t reach.  As my mouth works over his length I hear him groan and then I feel a tugging on my hips and I allow myself to be repositioned so I am straddling Sherlock’s head.  My ministrations on his cock falter as I feel a wet warmth envelope my own cock and I groan around the hard length in my mouth as I feel Sherlock hollow out his cheeks and suck.  I continue my work on his cock, bobbing my head, up and down, running the tip of my tongue along the meatus on the way up and sucking on the way down.  His own groans around my penis are delightful and I can’t stop the shiver that runs through my body every time he does it.  As my pleasure builds up my mouth works faster, harder and I bring the hand, which is not clasped around the base of Sherlock’s cock, to his scrotum and give it a small squeeze.  This causes Sherlock to groan again and I start to rub the twin balls between my fingers, just enough pressure to feel good, but not enough to hurt.  I keep the movement of my fingers in time with the movement of my head and after a few more sucks I squeeze the sack in my hand and am rewarded with a muffled yell from Sherlock as my mouth fills with his come_.  It is to that image that my own hand squeezes my own balls as my other hand rubs back and forth over my cock and I have to bite my lip to stop myself from crying out as my balls contract and I spit streams of white come, over my hand, to land on my stomach.  With a few steadying breaths I am able to reach over and pluck a tissue from the bedside cupboard.  I clean up the mess and pull up my pants, rolling over and, feeling no less miserable, I fall asleep.


	3. Is It Seduction If The Person You Are Seducing Is Also Seducing You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe John is going slightly mad, but Sherlock's 'experiment' is bending him almost to breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bloody hell, I thought that writing the same story from another characters point of view would be easy!! Oh, how wrong I was. This has been more time consuming than writing the original story, but thankfully it is over now. After this chapter it is all John's story.
> 
> And seriously, if you haven't read 'The Seduction Of..." yet, this still won't make much sense as it is just a recap of half of chapter 8 - 12 of that story, once again from John's POV.
> 
> And if you have read 'The Seduction Of..." then I apologise if this all seems a bit Deja Vu -ish. After this it will all be brand spanking new!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~

“Yeah, no” is my answer to Sherlock.  That doesn’t often happen, but right now it is. As a general rule I am happy, well, willing….okay, suckered into, giving the detective anything he wants.  This time I really don’t want to. 

“John.  You are a healthy A-negative.  The victims are unhealthy A-negatives.  I need to make some comparisons.  It is just a bit of blood.  You can draw it yourself if you’d rather.”  And he is up, pulling the necessary equipment for a simple blood extraction from the supply cupboards.  I sigh.  The sound of me giving in yet again.  It has become one of more vocalised sounds these past five and a half months.  I should have known that I would cave in, and it took less than a minute and a half.

I take off my jacket and finish rolling up my sleeve just as Sherlock returns, holding the tools he will need to remove my precious life source, out to me.

“I’ll let you do the honours” I tell him, offering him my arm.  Without another word I have a tourniquet tightly wrapped around my arm and Sherlock is tapping my inner elbow as I clench and unclench my wrist, trying to produce a good vein. And that is all I can handle.  I turn my head around, as far as it will go, trying to channel Linda Blair from the exorcist, waiting for that little jab.  It doesn’t come.

“John” comes the soft, voice of my arsehole flatmate.  He is trying to sound concerned, but I can hear the amusement underlying that concern and I know he has figured it all out.  “Are you scared of needles?” he asks.  I want to pull my arm out of his grasp and tell him that he has got it wrong. “No” I answer through clenched teeth.  “Just take the blood.”

I can hear the smile in Sherlock’s next words.  “You are.  You’re terrified of needles.”  My head snaps back around, like a rubber band that has stretched too far and then suddenly released and I glare at Sherlock.

“Do you want the blood or not?” I ask, my temper coming alarming close to boiling point.  This just causes Sherlock to grin even wider.  I can see the sheer joy of the situation dancing in his eyes.

“I want you to admit that you are scared of needles” is his response.

I won’t do that because it’s just not true.  Needles don’t bother me in the slightest.  Nor does blood. Or blood extractions. It is just the thought of my blood being pulled up through that little tube, and into the small plastic vial.  And it is all Harry’s fault.  When I was six I had to have a blood test done and she told me that the doctor was going to suck all of my blood out of me, like a vampire, and then I would be a zombie for the rest of my life.  I had panicked, as any six year old would have done, and ever since then I have hated having my blood taken.  It’s irrational, I know this.  I am a grown man for god sake.  I am a bloody doctor, but the thought of it all still makes my stomach clench and my head feel light and really doesn’t put me in the mood for joking about it.

“Just take the damn sample, Sherlock.  I am not sitting here all day.”  I am not surprised to hear my voice come out low, almost dangerous. 

Sherlock snorts back a small laugh.  “What, like you have somewhere better to be? I doubt it.  So Doctor” I really want to punch him at the moment. “How is it that such a strong, level-headed man such as yourself is scared of a tiny little syringe?”

The urge to punch someone has never, ever been so big, and the arm that is not in Sherlock’s hands is tensing up.  In order to control the urge I take a long, slow breath in through my nose and slowly releases it again.  “Sherlock” I say, quietly but not placidly, “Just take the god-damn blood all ready.”

Sherlock then surprises me by holding up a small vial of my blood and wiggling the little bottle in front of my eyes.  I didn’t even notice that he had inserted the needle, let alone extracted the blood.  “Thank you, Doctor.  You were an exemplary patient.  Would you like a lollipop?” Sherlock releases the tourniquet and presses a piece of gauze over the tiny puncture wound.  I throw him a look that conveys exactly what I think he can do with that fucking lollipop!

With what appears to be too much of a spring in his step Sherlock wanders over to Molly’s office and I roll down the sleeve of my shirt, deciding that I will refuse to acknowledge that Sherlock was made privy to this particular fear of mine.  No need to encourage him.

“Lunch?” he asks, returning just as I am putting my jacket back on.

“Sure” I reply and with that it was like the last ten minutes didn’t even happen.  

~o~  

What in the fuck did I think I was doing? I remove my head from the palm of my hands and let it thunk back against my bedroom door, which I am currently slumped against.  I almost kissed Sherlock.  Me.  Sherlock Holmes.  Kiss.  I drop my head back into my hands and take a deep breath.  What was I thinking?  That would have ruined everything.

The chase had been good.  We had got Terrance Weston.  He was currently behind bars.  It had taken Sherlock five days to trace all the evidence back to him and another half a day finding him.  And it had left me feeling good.  Apparently too good.  Good enough to finally, want to give into whatever experiment Sherlock was trying to pull and attempt to kiss him.  And to be honest, if Sherlock hadn’t moved his head, hadn’t broken whatever trance I was in, I probably would have done it too.  I let out a small groan at the thought of it and slowly, stand up.  Quietly I strip down to my pants and slide into bed.  I am exhausted but I have a feeling that sleep is not going to come easy.  I stare up at the dark ceiling above me, and I can’t help but wonder what it would have felt like, Sherlock’s lips against mine.  They look so soft.  With a frustrated sigh I roll over and bury my face into my pillow.  It is no good thinking about these things.  They won’t happen.  They can’t happen.  If I had kissed Sherlock, he would have catalogued whatever data it is that he is after and that would have been that.  And I just can’t live with that, just a small taste.  I want the whole lot and if I can’t have that then I don’t want any of it, because I am not like Sherlock Holmes.  I can’t lock my feelings away and refuse to acknowledge them.  Once I did this I wouldn’t be able to stop.  Somewhere, these past five months or so, I have fallen in love with the infuriating bastard and that is something that I refuse to let Sherlock Holmes dissect and analyse.  This is one time when I will not say yes to Sherlock bloody Holmes.  

~o~

I look down at the electric blue coaster in my hands, the words Fumo Blu stand out in bright white writing. Slowly I turn the little cardboard square over in my hand to see a neat message penned out in black ink. Just one word, Giles followed by a phone number and an email address.  This guy was eager.  An insidious feeling wells up inside of my gut, spewing slowly out through my abdomen and up into my chest.  I can taste it in the back of my throat and it really isn’t pleasant. Neither the feeling nor the taste.  I know what this is, even though I have never experienced it, at least not even close to this extent, before.  It is jealousy.  Pure and simple.  And for the past three nights it has been getting worse and worse.  It started off when Sherlock came out in those ridiculously tight jeans, black tee-shirt and boots.  The blood has never rushed to my cock so fast.  At first I had thought there was a case, (why wasn’t I needed) but that wasn’t the situation.  As if the outfit wasn’t odd enough, I then found out that Sherlock was just socialising.  Apparently he does that sometimes.  I brushed it off as an anomaly, chalking it up to his odd behaviour and continued my night out.  It would have been a great night out if my mind didn’t keep drifting back to Sherlock’s arse in those jeans.  It was like they were painted on.  But it was all fine.  It really was.  Until it really wasn’t, and that was when I saw the hickey, the size of Crete, on the left hand side of Sherlock’s neck.  That is when I first felt the icy cold tendrils of Jealousy starting to weave through my body.  It wasn’t rational.  Sherlock had been throwing signals out left right and centre, and I had had plenty of opportunities to take advantage of those signals.  I had no reason to feel jealous that someone else had decided to do what I couldn’t.  I pushed the feeling down.  It was one night in how many months had I known the man now?  I could live with this.

Then last night he had come out in those damn jeans again.  He told me not to wait up, but I couldn’t help it.  I tried going to bed but I just tossed and turned thinking about Sherlock rubbing up against some tall dark and mysterious being, thrusting in time to some sultry music as the stranger latched onto his neck, hands around Sherlock’s arse, pulling him closer.  I bolted out of bed and went downstairs to make a cup of tea.  Tea always makes me feel better.  It was as I was filling the kettle when Sherlock arrived home. 

“Fantastic, tea!” he exclaims, leaning up against me.  I can’t bring myself to look at him, for fear of more evidence of his activities, but I don’t have to look at him.  I can smell it.  All over him, and god it was strong, but it was most definitely not Sherlock’s fragrance of choice.  It was then that I had put the kettle down and returned to my bedroom with a mumbled “Good night” as I walked past my flatmate.

Now, Sherlock is in the shower after obviously enjoying his third night out in a row.  He always seems so happy upon returning, almost as happy as when his body was thrumming with adrenaline after a particular tricky run through London chasing after some criminal or another.  Tonight he had asked about my evening as he emptied the contents of his pockets onto the coffee table in front of me as I pretended to read ‘ _The Fifth Witness_.’  I had mumbled out some generic response and he had responded with a grin and “Sounds great” before bounding off towards the bathroom.

That is how I come to find myself staring at the now crumpled coaster in my hand.  The coaster that had been pulled out of Sherlock’s pockets not even four minutes ago.  Who the fuck is Giles?  Is he the person responsible for the hickey, which, by the way, still stands out like a fucking beacon?  Is he the one who marinated himself in some overpriced cologne before leaving his house, dousing everyone he came into contact with in the same headache inducing odour?  Who. The. Fuck. Is. Giles?

Before I know what I am doing I screw the coaster up even tighter and make my way up to my room, throwing the ruined cardboard into the small bin under my desk.  I’m not sure what exactly it is that I am hoping to accomplish.  Sherlock has been out three nights in a row.  If he really wants to contact Giles (the name even sounds horrible) he will only go back to the club, that’s if he hasn’t already memorised the phone number. 

With a resigned sigh I push away these possessive feelings, with not much success, and close my eyes and try to go to sleep.  

~o~  

I can’t describe the relief that rushes through my body at the sight of Sherlock laying on the couch, dressed in pyjamas.  I have had a shit day at work.  The whole day I have been trying not to think about Giles or Sherlock in skin tight jeans and fucking boots, for crying out loud.  It concluded in me having to follow a patient up to the hospital to continue treatment.  Once I had finished there I had run into Mike, who had also needed to stay back late.  When he asked if I wanted to grab a bite to eat at a nearby café I had almost turned him down, but noting the time I decided I could draw it out long enough that I wouldn’t have to be home in time to see Sherlock heading out again.  So in the name of self-preservation I accepted the invite.  Now I am tired and want nothing more than a cup of tea, a hot shower and bed.  That is until I stumble in and see Sherlock, obviously not going out.  I want to do a little dance of joy now that the socialising fling is over, but I don’t. 

“There is take away in the fridge” comes my flatmates voice from the living room as I am making two cups of tea.  (It was pleasant to find that Sherlock enjoyed drinking as much teas as myself, rather than telling me that I drink too much like most people did.  It is always good to find a fellow addict.)  I feel a bit bad that Sherlock not only went out of his way to organise food for once, but also made me aware of it. 

“Sorry, I’ve already eaten” I tell him as I place the mug on the table next to the sofa that Sherlock is sprawled on. 

I explain my day, trying not to feel pissed off that I missed the first evening in that Sherlock has had recently.  I’ll make up for it tomorrow. And with that thought I feel better, not so wound up, just tired.

“So, why aren’t you?” I ask.

“Aren’t I, what?” he asks back, moving his hands from under his chin to rest on his stomach.  My eyes automatically follow the movement and I know that he noticed it.  I look back up to meet his gaze.

“Going out again” I finally manage to answer. 

Sherlock shrugs and turns his gaze back up to the ceiling. “Felt like staying in” he tells me.

I frown, just a bit.  Does that mean he has finished with the club or is he just having a night off?  Maybe Giles wouldn’t be there tonight.  Maybe the club is closed tonight.  Whatever the reason Sherlock seems to be lost in his own thoughts again.  His face glazing over with that far off look he gets when he needs to think, probably not wanting company.  At least, obviously not my company.  With that thought I decide that a shower can wait until morning.  I really am exhausted.  “I think I am in for an early one” I announce as I stand up and I walk out the room towards the stairs.  

~o~

I am starting to believe that a day off of work was most definitely not what I needed.  After a practically sleepless night I had decided that work would only leave me feeling worse resulting in me coming home strung out and really not wanting to deal with whatever it is Sherlock is trying to do to me.  Now I think anything would have been preferable to this.  This being me currently standing in a lingerie store at one end, while Sherlock yells at me from the other end asking for my opinion on what colour pants he should buy.  I honestly don’t see a) why it matters, as they are see through anyway, b) why he feels the need to get my thoughts on the matter and c) why he feels the need to shout it across the store.  Somewhere to my right I hear the shop assistant try to stifle a giggle, unsuccessfully I might add, and this increases the colour currently tinting my face.  Sherlock seriously wants my input apparently as I can hear him starting to get impatient in just the one word he throws my way.  “Well?”

“Uhh…umm…” what the fuck does one say in this situation, although everything he has done today, from getting me to watch him practically getting felt up by his sleazy tailor to purchasing four bottles, ( _four_ for fucks sake), of that god-damned massage oil.  (If it was obvious what I was thinking to Sven, with his grin and little eyebrow wiggle, then it was most definitely obvious to Sherlock what had been going through my mind.  The only thing from stopping a certain part of my body from reacting to that thought had been, ‘Who the fuck else has he been offering massages to?’ I refused to let Giles’ name come to mind.)  Now he was picking out kinky underwear which obviously meant that someone else was going to see them.  Someone other than me, right here, right now.  I looked at what was already in his hands.  ‘Oh, dear lord!’  “…Black I suppose… matches the others.” And before he can push for any more input from me I turn and move towards the door, hoping that this is over already. 

Thankfully it is and before long we are in the cab, finally on the way home. 

“I never took you for a kinky underwear sort of guy” I say, once I am able to tear my eyes away from the pink paper bag that Sherlock placed between us, and look out the window, watching London as it blurs past us.

“You know how it is” Sherlock replies and I can feel him watching the back of my head.  I fight the urge to twitch under his intense stare.  “When you want to impress someone.  You have your red pants.  I have, well, these” he finishes off.

I fight back the cringe at the reference to my red pants and decide to try and make light of the entire situation.  “And a lot of people see your pants, then?”  That didn’t come out quite as light handed as I was hoping, as half way through the sentence I thought about Giles enjoying Sherlock in those utterly ridiculous pieces of clothing.  And they were ridiculous.

"Not a lot” Sherlock answers “but the purpose is for someone to see them, yes.”

The rest of the ride home is made in silence as I run through everything that has happened this past week.  I actually let myself believe, just a little bit, that maybe Sherlock is interested in something, other than experimenting on me, after all.  Just, maybe.  

~o~  

I dig through the cupboard and pull out a small selection of DVD’s that may keep the detective entertained.  As much as he hates the plots, acting and special effects he does enjoy showing off and picking apart the story and revealing the endings. 

This afternoon had been pleasant once we returned from running errands.  It had been wonderfully ordinary.  Sherlock had whinged, insistently, that he was bored, shot down every suggestion that I made and then we had Vietnamese before Sherlock went to shower.  It is way too early for bed, so maybe a movie would be a good way to fill the time.   I pick up two of the movies in my selection as I hear Sherlock enter the living room.  “Feel like watching a mo…” my sentence ends there as I take in the sight before me and I instantly feel stupid for believing that Sherlock would consider anything more than what we already have with me. 

“Shouldn’t be too late” Sherlock says as he slips his coat on over his clubbing outfit.  “Don’t wait up.”  And with that he is gone.  I stand up from where I am knelt on the floor and make my way over to the coffee table, gathering up the remains of dinner and generally cleaning the area, working around Sherlock’s equipment, telling myself over and over that it is all fine.  But apparently it is not all fine because twenty minutes later I find myself dressed in my good jeans and a black tee-shirt and leather jacket heading towards Fumo Blu.  I am not even in the club for ten minutes before I regret my decision to actually follow Sherlock.  I have no idea what I was hoping to accomplish but it certainly wasn’t this.  This crushing pressure I feel in my chest when I lock eyes with Sherlock, across the room, because someone who looks like that always stands out.  Our eyes meet briefly and then Sherlock presses his head back against the wall, exposing his neck to the tall, blonde, probably gorgeous, man who is currently being groped by Sherlock.  The message has been received loud and clear.  I am not Sherlock’s type.  I will never be his type. I should never have started to believe that I could have been.  I knew it was a dangerous path to follow. 

‘ _And I said dangerous, and here you are_.’

I shake the thought out of my head and walk out of the club and wander down the street.  I contemplate catching a taxi, but knowing my luck I would get a chatty driver and the last thing I feel like doing is chatting to someone.  I wander a bit longer, dimly aware that I am actually headed in the direction of home, but not thinking too much about it. 

What I am thinking about is how to carry on.  Before tonight there was always a small flicker of hope that whatever Sherlock and I had _could_ turn into more.  Now that hope has been completely extinguished.  After about half an hour of walking along the quiet streets, passing a group or a couple, obviously out enjoying the night, I decide that seeing Sherlock with tall and blonde has actually allowed me to form some sort of closure.  Now I definitely know that there is no hope, I can continue life not hoping. It has also become evident that whatever the hell Sherlock has been doing these past few months is some weird social experiment and my efforts to ignore them have been correct.  By the time I reach Baker Street it is two o’clock and I am tired.  I didn’t actually expect it to take me so long to walk home.  My feet are killing me because I haven’t worn these shoes since before I started my last deployment.  I head upstairs and bypass the living room.  By the look of the light coming from under the door and the slight shuffled noise that I can hear Sherlock is still awake and to be honest I don’t want to walk in and see whatever evidence he is sporting from tonight’s enterprises, so I bypass the living room and continue up to my room.  I strip down and change in my pyjamas and slip under the sheets.  Surprisingly I fall asleep straight away.  

~o~  

Work has been slow all day.  It doesn’t appear to be picking up.  This gives me plenty of time to reflect on the past 18 hours or so.  This morning had been good.  I was worried that it would be awkward but when I had woken up at 6:30 to Sherlock playing his violin, surprisingly a piece from Nine Inch Nails, a band I used to listen to frequently in my uni days, I went downstairs and I managed to carry on as usual, although Sherlock had seemed a bit distant, but even under normal circumstances that was normal behaviour.  He had been floating around in his mind palace when I had left, tea untouched.  I honestly won’t be surprised if he is in the same position when I get home. 

Hoping for something at bit more taxing than an ingrown toenail I rub my hand over my eyes and buzz Jane in reception to send in my next patient.   

~o~  

I can’t believe my eyes.  The living room is clean.  And not just, Sherlock tidied up kind of clean.  It is practically sparkling, clean.  “What…you cleaned” is all I can manage to say as I hang up my jacket.  And what is that smell? “You cooked!” I answer my own question as I walk into the kitchen.  And by the looks of the amount of dishes in the sink it is not a quick pasta dish this time round.

“Well observed, John.  I am glad to see that a long day at work hasn’t dulled your basic senses.”  And there is my proof that I didn’t completely step into the twilight zone.  “Tea will be ready in about five minutes if you want to get freshened up beforehand” Sherlock tells me pulling something out of the oven.  Or maybe I did completely step over to the zone and Sherlock will always be a bit of an arrogant arse no matter what dimension he is in.

“Okaaay” I say and make my way to the bathroom which is gleaming.  I always assumed that the grout between the tiles was grey.  Apparently it is white.  I splash my face with cold water, twice, and dry it with the rose scented hand towel, (where the fuck did that come from?), hanging on the towel rack before venturing back out into the kitchen where there is wine.  Yes!  Wine would be great around about right now.

“So, what’s all this then?” I ask, gesturing towards the table which Sherlock has cleared, scrubbed and set up rather nicely.  Of course I don’t get a straight answer and when I try to get one he just instructs me to eat, so I do and, fuck, it is good.  Really, really, good.  That prick has been holding out on me for almost six months.  And apparently he has been able to cook like this since a rather young age. 

“What else are you hiding from me?” I ask and instantly regret it as he looks down at his plate with a slight panicked look on his face.  It doesn’t last long and he looks back up at me with his usual cocky grin and says, “I don’t let a lot of people know, and if you tell anyone, know that I will deny it.”

I grin back.  He would too, not that anyone would believe it even if I did tell them.   We continue chatting small talk, which is unusual in itself, but it is pleasant so I don’t question it and Sherlock almost gets excited when I tell him about my loony patient of the day.  The one who was convinced he had contracted Ebola whilst away on holiday in Africa.  I had to do the tests before he would leave, and that was a pain in the arse because it is a reportable disease.  God, the paperwork had given me a fucking headache that lasted the rest of the day. 

Maybe I have suffered an aneurism while at work and am actually in hospital and this is some weird coma dream.  But if all coma dreams involve molten lava cakes then I am happy to stay in a coma for the rest of my life because it. Is. Devine!

“God, this is fantastic” I almost moan, but catch myself at the last minute, toning it down to just sound really appreciative and finish the dessert off in silence.  ‘You know” I say, pushing the bowl away from me, “Now that I know you can cook food which I am pretty certain would earn three Michelin Stars, I expect it more often, you know.”

Sherlock’s next words bring everything back into focus and I am made certain that, yes, this is reality.  “You really do like to set yourself up for disappointment, don’t you John.”

I want to droop, to wither, to curl up and hide away from the world, because, yes.  He is right.  I have wanted something from this man, who has been practically coming onto me with no intention of ever wanting me, knowing that it would never come to anything.  I thought I had it under control, but apparently, no.  I don’t.  I really don’t.  But I don’t fold in on myself like I want to.  I don’t turn and run away.  Instead I keep the smile on my face and my head held high.    “When it comes to you, yeah, I do.”  Because it is the truth.  He is the only aspect in my life that I can’t control.  That I can’t help wanting more of.  But it is fine.  I know I can’t have it, and I am a grown man.  I know I can’t always have what I want.  Life goes on.

Sherlock, for some reason, looks shocked at my words.  I don’t know why.  He pointed it out himself.  “John, I’m…” whatever he is, I don’t find out because he is interrupted by his phone ringing.  “What” he snaps into the phone and I take that as my cue to leave.  It will be Mycroft, which means I don’t need to know about it, or Greg, with a case, and quite frankly I am really not feeling up to a case tonight.  Maybe ten minutes ago I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but now I suddenly feel so tired. 

“Yes, fine.  We will be there.  Text the address” I hear him bark down the phone.  So Lestrade then.

“Case?” I ask as he walks into the living room, although I already know the answer.

“Yes” he answers shrugging into his coat.  “Lestrade will meet us there.”

I let out a sigh.  Of course he expects me to just up and go with him.  It’s my own fault, I have always done it.  Dropped everything for Sherlock Holmes.  I let out a tired sigh.  “I have had a really long day, Sherlock.  If you don’t mind I’d like to…”

But I am cut off by Sherlock’s sharp, almost pissed off voice.  “Well, I do mind, John.  You know I work better when you are there, and besides, Lestrade asked for you specifically.”  I look up to Sherlock who is wrapping his scarf around his neck, looking at me as if to say, ‘ _so hurry the hell up_ ’.  “There is a live victim at the scene” he informs me.  “He won’t let anyone near him, but apparently he is rather badly injured.  He wants you to bring your medical bag.  Something about maybe needing to sedate him.”

“Why haven’t they called an Ambulance?” I ask as I stand up and walk towards the taller man, about to slip into my jacket when I realise that would practically be letting Sherlock dress me.  Instead I take the jacket from his hand.

“I don’t know.  Something about people in uniforms.  I really wasn’t paying that much attention.  I was more interested in the corpse.”  I roll my eyes as I finish doing up my jacket.  Of course he focused on the part about the dead person. 

“Give me two minutes.  I’ll just grab my bag” I say heading up to my room to get my emergency kit.  While I am there I also grab my gun.  In the past six months I have learnt that with Sherlock Holmes you can never be too careful.  

~o~  

“I am dead, I am sure of it” I groan as I sink into my arm chair.  The case had started off fine.  The victim at the scene, Michael, had suffered from multiple lacerations all over his body, some deep, some shallow, all under 3cm in length.  Eight of them had required suturing.  It had taken twenty minutes to get Michael to trust me enough to get close enough and I had managed to sedate the boy just enough to get him to relax enough to fix him up.  Once that was done the sedative and exhaustion had left him pliant enough to be handed over to the EM’s that had been called out.  When the boy was no longer my concern I had the task of looking for Sherlock.  It didn’t take long.  I found him grousing at Greg about _useless neighbours who should be, by all rights, either dead or in a nursing home as she is clearly demented.  And why in the hell did they even need Sherlock.  The murderer had left enough clues that even Anderson should be able to figure this one out on his own_.  The fact that I couldn’t hold back a chuckle when I saw the look Anderson threw the detective was a testament to how tired I was, although the look was pretty priceless.  It was as if wanted to be offended at the insult, but also a bit tickled at the compliment.  Even now I want to giggle, but I am.  Too. Tired. As usual the case ended in a lot of ground work, a fucking hour long chase through some rather dodgy backstreets and an altercation that saw me trying desperately not to hurt a young woman who was obviously scared and probably weighed half of what I did, but apparently a lot tougher than she looked and it soon became apparent that the only way to stop her without having to actually shoot her was to render her unconscious.  I would say that I won’t envy the headache she is going to wake up with, but I’m pretty sure that I am going to have one to match hers in the morning as well.  Just when I thought it was time to go back home and finally be able to have a cup of tea and then bed Greg pleaded with Sherlock to help them find any form of evidence that would lead them to the group that were hiring out children, like Michael, to scum, like the man that had been murdered. 

It is only three thirty in the morning, and usually for us that isn’t really that late, but I was tired before we left the house.  Now I am just fucking exhausted.

“Tea?” I ask without even opening my eyes, really wanting a cup, but at the same time not really wanting to get up off of my chair.  I wait for Sherlock to answer and am surprised to hear the kettle being filled up. Normally I would have told him to back away from the kitchen.  Tea making after a case is practically a ritual of mine and it helps me calm down after the mad dash, but tonight, I really couldn’t care who makes the tea.  Before long Sherlock is standing in front of me with a blessed cup of tea.  I take it and look up at him.  He looks more wrecked than I feel.  And he is still standing in front of me and I don’t know why.

“You should get some sleep” I tell him.  He is obviously more gone than I thought.

“I’m sorry” he blurts out.  Now I’m confused.  Is he apologising for something (and, really, it could be anything) or did he not hear what I said?

“Sorry?” I repeat.

Sherlock seems to centre himself before he continues as his next words come out more….sane like.  “Yes, I am sorry” he repeats.  I’m still confused.  I lean back in my chair, resting my mug in my chair and try to visually read the man before me, because I’m not getting any other clues.

“For everything” he continues.  “I know you think I don’t notice you.  I do.”  I feel my heart stutter in my chest and then pick up at a speed that is probably a bit faster than normal.  I push back any thought that will let me think this is going where I want it to go, because I really can’t keep doing this to myself.  “What I said earlier.  About disappointing…I don’t…”  Now I am worried.  Sherlock is never this inarticulate.  It is me that does the whole, stuttering and not finishing sentences.  “You don’t disappoint me, John” he finally says “You never have.  You are always…perfect.  Always” I almost miss the last word, as it comes out in such a soft whisper, a sound I didn’t think the man was capable of making.  I don’t get time to think any more about it as my thoughts are disrupted by Sherlock exiting the room just as quietly as he had uttered the word _Always_.

I sit in my chair and think about all that had just transpired.

‘ _Perfect…Always_.’

‘Maybe…’ I let myself think after two minutes of fighting that one word.  ‘…Just, maybe.’

I look back onto all of Sherlock’s odd behaviour over the past months.  It started with that fucking performance with the banana.  Actually, no, it started before that with the lip balm and the sucking on the pens.  It seemed that Sherlock had gone from asexual to slightly sensual, practically overnight, but I had opted to ignore it, blaming my hormones for reading too much into it.  _Then_ he had pulled the stunt with the banana and éclair and what followed that?  After that his clothes had started getting tighter and I know damn well it wasn’t because he was putting on weight, despite what he said to that Julian, and that little display at the tailors was obviously for show.  Now I think I know why.  For the same reason that he has been wandering around with practically nothing on, on a regular basis, and why he has been sitting closer and been more touchy than normal.  It was why he is always immaculately groomed, even on days when he lounges around in his pyjamas and why he has been drawing more attention to that fucking arse of his when we are out.  It is what had prompted the chicken korma performance and why he refused to put on pants when I had had to stitch up his leg.  It was probably why he spent eleven days being helpful and considerate and what had prompted that massage.  Oh, god!  That massage.  That had been the theme of many of my dreams lately, especially when he had made a show of buying four more bottles of the almond oil that he had used, not to mention the whole show of buying ridiculous pants, pants which I am pretty sure Sherlock will never wear.  I wasn’t convinced at the time and I’m certainly not convinced now.  It had all been a show of some sorts to get my attention.  Attention away from the women I tended to date and onto him. 

I looked back further.  This all started just after I brought Bonnie home.  The only girlfriend of mine that had ever stayed the night, and for good reason. 

Jesus Christ.  Sherlock had been jealous.  Way back then.  And he had been trying to get my attention ever since. 

But what was Giles all about, and the trips to the club.  To start off with I could see how getting me jealous with small hints, such as the love bite or the coaster, but when he saw me at the club …   Oh! He wanted me to see that.  He wanted me to know, after I backed out of kissing him, that he was open to a relationship, to physical intimacy.  It was all a show, and as usual, I got it wrong.  Well, to be fair, his clues were shit.  If he had just come out and actually asked me or thrown out subtle, yet _obvious_ hints that he was open to a relationship, but no.  Sherlock Holmes doesn’t do anything the easy way.  Everything has to be obscure, difficult and fucked up, otherwise, where is the fun?

With a sigh I stand up and take my still full, but now cold cup into the kitchen and tip the contents down the sink.  I am too tired to worry about this now, but first thing tomorrow I plan to sort this out one way or another.  

~o~  

I wake up early, despite getting bugger all sleep.  Downstairs it is evident that Sherlock is still fast asleep.  Best to leave him be.  After all, I have a seduction to plan.  Last night, as I tossed and turned in my bed, I came to the conclusion that I was not going to back away from this anymore.  I was going to tackle it head on, and in a typical Sherlockian fashion. I was going to seduce Sherlock Holmes. (Is it seduction if the person you are seducing is also seducing you?)

I make breakfast as I clean the mess that was left in the kitchen from last night.  It is only fair, since Sherlock did put a lot of effort into cooking, that I clean up afterwards.  I then shower and head off down to the hospital to check on Michael. 

It is as I am about to leave the hospital, forming a plan at making-me-sherlocks (I know I could just talk to the man, but where would the fun be in that?) when a thought occurs to me.  Quickly I head down to the morgue, happy to see that Molly is on duty. 

“Morning” I say as I stroll through the double doors that lead into the lab.

“John” she squeaks, in her typical timid fashion.  I see her looking past my shoulder, waiting for Sherlock to follow me through the doors.  The fact that she was expecting _him_ to _follow me_ should have been a dead giveaway that he wasn’t here, but I decide not to bring that up.

“He’s not here” I assure her and I can actually see her physically relax. 

“Oh, how can I help you then?” she asks, sounding a bit more professional.

I slap on my most charming smile, (Sherlock’s not the only one who can use charm to get what he wants) and ask, “Was just wondering if you had anything I could take back for Sherlock to…do whatever it is Sherlock does with…bits.”  Thankfully Molly knows exactly what I am talking about. 

“Umm, I’m not really sure…” she seems hesitant, and I don’t blame her.  Normally I am getting annoyed at Sherlock over the amount of extra body parts in 221B, not actively participating in commandeering them. 

“It’s just that, he has been quite bored lately and I think Mrs H is ready to sign an eviction notice.  You know how he gets” and I add a little nose wrinkle to the smile.

It works.  Molly grins in a way that tells me she knows exactly what I am talking about, even though I know that, no, she has no idea!  “Actually, I might have just the thing.  Just wait here” and she turns and exits the room.  Twenty minutes later I am leaving St. Bart’s hospital with a bagged up, ulcerated stomach.  Not wanting to walk around London, or have to suffer the tube whilst carrying human organs I catch a cab home chuckling at the thought of either getting mugged or picked up by the police for acting suspicious.  The cab driver throws me a few odd looks, but in the end it is worth it.  Sherlock’s face lights up like a bloody Christmas tree when he sees the contents of the bag and it keeps him quiet for hours, completely involved in his project doing, only god knows what to the stomach, so I can steal glances at him, without being noticed as I try to work on my next step of seducing Sherlock.  Later on, as I step out of the shower, I can hear the soothing, beautiful sounds of the violin coming from the living room.  Sherlock seems to be in a good mood.  I leave the bathroom, deliberately not putting on a top and walk through the living room as I towel my hair dry, throwing a compliment at Sherlock as I walk through, not looking at him, but feeling his gaze on me the whole time.

I go upstairs, pull a tee-shirt out of my drawer and put it on, throwing the towel on my bed and make my way back downstairs.  I am nearly at the bottom when I hear the hurried sound of Sherlock putting his violin hastily away in its case.  I bite my lip to hold the grin in check.  I really must have ruffled him.  He never puts that thing away, despite me asking him countless times, because I don’t want to be the one responsible for breaking it.  I don’t know anything about violins, but I am pretty certain that there is no way in hell I would be able to afford a replacement if I ever actually damage it some how.

“Chinese?” I ask as I make my way back into the living room and I am pleased to hear Sherlock’s response come out hoarse. 

“You okay?” I ask, putting on my best doctor’s voice as he makes his way to the kitchen and throws back a glass of water as if he had been starved of any liquid for a long period of time.  “You sound like you are coming down with something.”

“Fine, John” he replies, sounding more like himself again. “Chinese sounds great.  Do you want me to order?”  I don’t get a chance to answer as he is already on the phone, putting as much distance between us as possible.  It occurs to me that a flustered Sherlock is probably one of the most adorable things I have ever seen.

A little over two hours later I am feeling quite pleased with myself.  We started the evening with a fair distance between us on the couch as we devoured egg rolls and watched Shutter Island, which surprisingly, Sherlock didn’t ruin the end of.  During that time I managed to decrease the distance between us by approximately 15 cm, all without Sherlock noticing.  It was a trick I learnt when I was younger, how to discreetly slide along with minimal movement.  I used to use it when me and Harry would share a bed whilst visiting grandma.  It would scare the shit out of her every time.  Apparently I haven’t lost my touch as Sherlock is clearly confused, come the end of the movie, as to the distance between us.  I can tell by the way his eyes dart from where I am now to where I was before, before looking down at the gap between the armrest and his own thighs, determining if it is him who has moved.  It is quite a delightful feeling getting one up on Sherlock.

Quietly I stand up and pick up the remains from dinner and place them in the fridge, and put the rubbish in the bin.  I then go do what I need in the bathroom, looking forward to an early night.

I come into the kitchen to see Sherlock setting up for tea, and just to throw him that bit more I announce with a yawn that I am going to bed.  “I will see you in the morning” I say as I walk past him, and I can’t help myself.  My arm extends out and I ruffle my hand gently through his hair.  God, I can’t express how much I have wanted to do that.  I am disappointed that the contact is so brief and it takes a lot of self-control to keep walking out of the kitchen and not do an about turn and go back to do a more thorough job.  There is no response from Sherlock and, as I walk up the stairs, I secretly congratulate myself for rendering the great detective speechless.

The following morning finds me up before Sherlock, as usual.  What is unusual is that he makes his way into the bathroom to shower before making his way out to the kitchen, where there is a cup of tea waiting for him.  And a banana.  Well, the banana is for me, and the show isn’t going to be as impressive as what his was, after all, I have never actually given a blow job before, but the message won’t be lost on him.  Apparently the message is received loud and clear as he grabs his tea and practically runs back to his bedroom, shutting the door a bit too hard.  I finish reading the paper and place my empty cup on the sink before making my way to Sherlock’s room.  I knock once and call out letting him know that I am heading out.  As predicted Sherlock decides to join me, despite my errands not being as half as interesting as what his were the other day.

We make our way down to my clinic where Sherlock literally throws death glares at Jane as she flirts with me, so I take the opportunity to do something I have refused to do with this woman since I started working at the clinic.  I flirt back.

“Full time hours, whenever you want them, Doctor, then you can see me any day you like.”  Well that answers the question of who has been going through my pigeon-hole, although, I had a pretty good idea any way.

“Don’t tempt me” I grin back.  “I may just take you up on that offer” and I give her a cheeky wink before turning away. I can practically hear the glare that the detective is throwing me.

Sherlock follows me or, actually, leads the way, to my office where he proceeds to take in every small detail of my office.  As I fill out forms I couldn’t be arsed doing the other day I note how he moves around my office.  “It’s locked” I tell him as I hear him fiddling with the medication cabinet.  Less than two minutes I hear the cabinet open.  “That wasn’t a challenge” I tell him, finally looking at him, a small amused smile on my face.  He just shrugs and I go back to my work.  Sherlock has this thing with locked things.  He always feels the need to unlock them.  I hear the cupboard shut and lock again.  Technically I should go over and check that nothing has gone missing, but, despite his history, I trust Sherlock to not steal drugs from my office.

“So” Sherlock says almost casually as he sinks back into the chair normally reserved for patients, and I know what’s coming.  “Jane?”

I have to bite down on my bottom lip to stop the smile from stealing over my face before I can answer.  “Sleeps with every single, male doctor that is hired here, sometimes even some of the married ones.  Not really my type” I explain, and it is true, especially after I had to treat Dr Wilson for a nasty little infection that he may or may not have picked up from her a few weeks ago.  Sherlock seems to relax at this bit of information and I am able to get back to work in relative peace and quiet.

Before we leave I steal a lollipop out of the jar on my desk and we make our way towards Tesco, where I spend the entire fifteen minute trip sucking on that lollipop.  It is amusing watching Sherlock, out of the corner of my eye, trying to drag his gaze away from the general area of my mouth.  If I had known that getting Sherlock’s interest would be this easy I would have done it ages ago.

After a quick run through Tesco’s we head home, only to have to leave shortly after as there has been a murder at the London Aquarium.  There honestly isn’t much to do after I have done a quick once over on the body.  Within fifteen minutes Sherlock has sussed out the scene, insulted everyone, including the victim, and solved the murder and in a swirl of coat tails is headed for the exit.

“He’s in fine form” Greg says coming up behind me.  I turn and look at the DI, noting he looks tired.  That could explain why he called Sherlock in on a relatively open and closed case.  Either that or he was hoping for something more complicated.  

“Yeah, he’s…” I’m not actually sure what to tell Greg.  “…Sherlock” I finish lamely.  Greg gives me an odd look and before he can ask if everything is alright I change the subject.  “Want to catch up for a pint tomorrow?”

Greg sighs and instantly looks ten times more exhausted.  ‘Would love to, but me and the missus are heading off to Cardiff tomorrow.  Try and get this marriage sorted.”  And that explains a lot.  “If you’re not busy tonight though?”  And he seems to brighten up at his own suggestion.  I go to tell him no, I really do want to work on _making-me-sherlocks_ but the hopeful gleam in his eyes is too hard to ignore, plus, this actually might just work in my favour.

“Sure thing” I reply eagerly.

“Seven o’clock, normal place, yeah?” Greg confirms just as Sherlock, who has finally realised I hadn’t followed on his earlier summons, stalks up to us, a rankled frown on his face. “I’ll be there” I say and then turn my attention onto the vexed detective behind me.

“Quite finished?” he snarks and I just grin up at him. 

“I am now.  Let’s go” and with that I head off in the direction of the exit, leading a confounded Sherlock out into the crisp London air.  The trip back to Baker Street is a silent ride and I can practically hear the gears in Sherlock’s head grinding away.  Again, I silently congratulate myself on rendering Sherlock Holmes speechless.

“So, making plans with Gavin?”  Sherlock asks once we are inside the flat, trying to sound indifferent, and failing miserably.  I bite back the grin as I head over to the kettle and fill it up.

“Greg, and yes, we are heading out to the pub tonight.”

“But it’s not Friday or Saturday” he practically cries.  Bloody hell, this couldn’t have worked out better if I had planned it. 

“Yep, I learned the days of the week in kindergarten, thanks” I deliver the tea to the detective and sit in my chair, facing him, sipping on my own tea.  “And funnily enough” I add, “The pubs are open every day of the week.”

“But you only go out on a Friday or a Saturday” the man before me sulks, and I take another sip of tea to stop myself from grinning like an absolute loon. 

I give a small apathetic shrug.  “Well, this week I am going out on a Thursday.”  I watch as the 34 year old man before me takes on the appearance of a four year old toddler who was just told he had to eat his sprouts.

“Why?” he asks and I can actually hear the petulant frown in his voice, but I keep my amusement under control and maintain my mask of aloofness. 

“Because Greg asked if I was busy tonight.  I wasn’t, so he suggested we a grab a pint or two tonight.  He is heading out of town tomorrow.”  Sherlock is silent for the three minutes it takes to finish his tea and then he gets up and practically storms off to his room, leaving his empty mug on the floor next to his chair, just in case I wasn’t already aware that he disapproves of my plans.  Strongly. 

I can no longer hold the chuckle in and, finishing off my own tea, I reach for the paper and resume the daily crossword that I started this morning.   

~o~  

I haven’t even been out for an hour when the first message comes through and in all honesty I am surprised it has taken him this long.  He must really be restraining himself.

**What are the immediate effects of cane toad poisoning on a fully grown male?  And how long do the symptoms take to present?  SH**

I sigh as I read the message, again.  That would explain what the pulpy fleshy bulbs on the saucer in the fridge were.

As quick as I can I type out a reply and hit send.

“Sherlock?” Greg asks, not actually asking if it was my endearingly insane flatmate, but more like asking ‘what’s he up to now?’

I show him the message and he huffs a laugh into his beer.  I had already told him that I would probably be called away early, as Sherlock was in one of his more bizarre moods.  It also explained why I was drinking juice instead of beer.  Didn’t really want Greg knowing that I was keeping my head clear in order to be able to seduce Sherlock.

Even more surprisingly it is a full hour before the next message comes through, and if I didn’t know Sherlock like I did I would assume he was back on the drugs again. 

**Did you move my bowel?  SH**

I know damn well that there was no bowel in the fridge, so either he is grasping at straws for something to annoy me with or he had it stored somewhere that wasn’t appropriate for storing human organs in.  That thought alone should worry me, but it really, really, doesn’t.  

Even though it will get lost on Sherlock I send a message back, trying for humour.

**Although I am a Doctor and am capable of making that happen I would advise trying more fibre in your diet first.**

It takes him a while to respond and I can picture the frown his face as he tries to decipher the meaning, probably calculating to himself how many beers I have already consumed.  Finally the response arrives.

**Don’t be obtuse, John.  I was talking about the one I had in the fridge.  It is nowhere to be found  SH**

Now I know he was lying.  There was definitely no bowel in the fridge.  I know.  I have seen bowels before.  I have held them in my hands.  There was never one in our fridge, but if he wants to play this silly game then who am I to stop him?

 **Haven’t seen it sorry.  Maybe Mrs H threw it out.**   I reply.  His reply is instant and that little twinge of jealousy I get at his super human texting speed twinges, just a bit, in my gut.  

**Probably.  We must define what ‘not our housekeeper’ means to her one day  SH**

I decide to leave him hanging and don’t respond to the text, instead turning my attention back to Greg.

Greg and I are discussing the poor fate of the new forensic tech, currently under Anderson’s guidance, half an hour later, when my phone pings again. 

**Bored  SH**

I smile and then place my phone back in my pocket.  Not even two minutes later it pings again.

**Really Bored  SH**

Again I ignore it, and Greg, probably noting my smug grin opens his mouth to ask what is so amusing when both of our phones alert us to incoming messages.  Just as I am opening the message to see what it say’s Greg sprays the table in front of us with the beer that was previously in his mouth, quickly tapping out a response and I am now starting to think that I am the only person in London, under the age of eighty, who texts at the speed of a stoned sloth.  Pushing that thought to the back of my mind I look down at my message. 

**What is the standard response time for a patrol car to arrive when shots are fired in the middle of London these days?  SH**

“For fucks sake….” I growl and tap out my reply  

**PUT MY BLOODY GUN AWAY**

Instantly both of our phones chime again.

**Calm down.  John, I don’t have your gun, Lestrade I am NOT planning anything.  It was just a question  SH**

“What the fuck was all that about” Greg asks, using the sleeve of his jacket to wipe up the beer he spat out two minutes ago.

“He’s bored and probably needs someone to entertain him” I answer, figuring that was the simplest way to answer the question.  ‘And insanely jealous that I am out spending time with you not him’ would raise too many questions . But now I want to head home, just in case he does actually have my gun.  God only knows what damage he could inflict with that thing.

Quickly we finish our chosen beverages and I head off with a “Good luck with that” From Greg.

It isn’t long before I am traipsing up the stairs of our apartment and there is Sherlock, sitting in his arm chair tapping his fingers anxiously on the arm rests.  He is expecting me to have a go at him.  Looks like I am full of surprises tonight.  

“I’d ask how your evening was, but judging by the text messages I received tonight I am going to go with ‘ _Boring_ ’.  Tea?” I ask as I go about my tea making routine.

“You didn’t have a drink tonight” Sherlock offers instead of an answer.

“Not of beer, no” I confirm.

“But you went to the pub” he clarifies, clearly confused.  I must say, it is a little bit addictive, getting one up on Sherlock. 

I get the milk out of the fridge and continue making the tea.  “Yes and they also serve water and orange juice.”   I bring our mugs into the living room and hand Sherlock his before settling down with mine.  I watch Sherlock as he engages in small talk, not something he is prone to do.  His agitation seems to grow worse, and if I wasn’t aware of the reason behind his behaviour it would be worrying.  As it is I can’t help the small grin that has turned the corners of my lips up, just a bit.

I watch as Sherlock gulps down his tea and stands up, probably a bit faster than the relaxed occasion calls for.   “I’m going to bed” he blurts and stiffly makes his way to the kitchen to place his mug in the sink.  He is so wound up that he doesn’t hear me get up and follow him.  I reach around him to place my half full mug next to his empty one and then I look up into his face and give him a small, reassuring smile.

“Good night, Sherlock” I practically whisper, reaching up to place my hand in his curls again, and I want to sigh at how good they feel under my fingers, but I don’t.  Instead I lean forward and place my lips on his, just briefly, and then I pull back, remove my fingers from his hair and turn and make my way to my bedroom, revelling in the fact that I not only rendered Sherlock Holmes speechless, but I also left him temporarily immobile.  There was only one way tonight could get any better.

The moment had felt right.  Seeing Sherlock so worked up like that, it would have been cruel to keep stringing him along any more.  And the kiss had felt right too.  Hell, a small chaste press of lips upon lips had practically sent the man into a state of comatose.  Any more could have quite possibly ended up with a trip to A&E.  I give it five minutes until he stops fluffing around in that mind palace of his, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.  Then he will either turn around and go to his room, or make his way up here and hopefully finally finish what has apparently been the world’s longest and strangest mating ritual.  I am really hoping for the latter.

Five minutes comes and goes and so far, nothing.  I haven’t even heard anything from downstairs.  I carefully fold back the duvet on my bed, not ready to give up hope yet.  I then fold the blanket and then the top sheet back, moving slowly, straightening out edges and pressing the folds down into clean sharp edges in the fabric.  Ten minutes pass and I decide that maybe I have read this entire situation wrong, again, which means that originally I read it right.  So does that make me doubly wrong, or does my first perceived incorrect deduction get cancelled out because of this incorrect assumption therefore leaving me exactly the way I was before this whole entire fucking mess began, and if I am wrong this time what in God’s Fucking Name has been going on these past few months? 

I am pulled out of my thoughts by hurried footsteps coming up the steps and I don’t have time to do anything except stand up from the bed and face the door before it is thrown open and Sherlock is crowding up against me and placing his hands on either side of my face, angling it up to meet his as his lips crush into mine in a kiss that is hot and hungry and so fucking arousing.  I pull his body closer to mine with one hand while the other hand cradles the back of his head, pulling our faces closer together because there is way too much room between us.  I give a quick tug on Sherlock’s hair and the man gasps, not much, but enough to allow me to slip my tongue into his mouth, seeking out his tongue.  I drag my tongue over his and along the back of his teeth, moaning when he sucks my tongue further into his mouth and he thrusts his hip against my stomach, alerting me to the fact that this is most definitely working for him.  I roll my own hips, the evidence of my own arousal thrusting up against his thigh.  Too soon Sherlock pulls back and we are both panting as he stares down at my mouth before leaning in and licking my bottom lip.  That was unexpected yet extremely stimulating.   

“Took you long enough” I manage to breathe out.  This causes Sherlock to hold me at arm’s length and glare down at me with a look that would probably leave a lesser man cowering.

“Me” he growled.  ‘It took _me_ long enough!”

I trap my bottom lip between my teeth and grin up at him, knowing that he was probably thinking the same about me.  “I expected you to follow me up here straight away.  I didn’t expect to be waiting almost fifteen minutes.”  At that comment I am pushed up against the wall where Sherlock engages us in another kiss that was more savage than the one before.  His mouth doesn’t stay on mine for long and I find myself dropping my head to the right as his mouth moves down my jaw and latches onto the skin just under my left ear.

“I have been waiting for you for three months” he growls, nipping at my ear lobe which earns a sharp intake of breath from me.  “Three months I have been trying to get you here” and his teeth move back to the skin just under my ear, and I just want to melt into the wall.  I am so lost in the intense pleasure that is running riot through my body that I only just hear the next words that he utters.  “But you would have to be one of the most stubborn men I have ever encountered.” And he punctuates the last word with a roll of his hips against my stomach again, eliciting a moan from both of us.  If we don’t progress soon, I am going to embarrass myself by coming in my pants, something I haven’t done, whilst sober, since I was in my teens.

“So” I pant, grinding my hip against his cock, “I am here now, what are you going to do about it?” 

Before I know what has happened my back is no longer against the wall and the mattress is behind my knees, causing me to lose my balance.  I fall back so focused on trying to get my mind to catch up with my body, that I don’t let go of my grasp on Sherlock’s shirt.  As I fall back on the mattress I pull him down with me, resulting in a sharp pain in my stomach, hard enough to wind me.   

“Jesus, fuck.” I wheeze as I try to pull air back into my lungs. Getting my breathing back under control would be a hell of a lot easier if I didn’t have six foot of consulting detective straddling my hips and pushing down on my abdomen.  

“Are you hurt?” he asks looking too concerned as he tries to pull my top up, obviously looking for signs of injury.

“I won’t be if you don’t stop trying to push on my stomach” I huff out, glad that my lungs seem to be properly functioning again.  “It was nothing.  Took me by surprise is all” and I look up at him with a cocky grin as I realise that he is sitting exactly where he should be.  Sherlock looks down at his hands and then back up at me with a grin of his own before he rolls his hips against mine and oh! Buggering fuck, if that wasn’t the most electrifying thing I had ever felt, pulling a groan out of me that I couldn’t have stopped if I had tried.  Sherlock, thankfully, takes this as a good sign and does it again, this time with a bit more pressure.  “Sherlock” I gasp, and I can’t wait any longer.  With an urgency I have never felt before I reach down to pull my jumper up, the need to be divested of my clothing stronger than my rational thought and as it turns out I need Sherlock to help my undress because my brain has started stuttering.  Before long the jumper is gone and Sherlock is frantically trying to undo the buttons on my shirt.  I go to help, but I just get my hands batted out of the way.  It is too long before the last button pops free from its button hole and I am being pulled up into a sitting position as Sherlock sighs at the sight of my undershirt.  My shirt is yanked down my arms only to come to a halt at the wrists and I hear something I never thought I would ever hear.  Sherlock grabbed my first wrist to fiddle with yet another button while muttering “fucking tiny insipid fucking buttons” I couldn’t help it.  I actually chuckle as Sherlock practically rips the buttons off of the cuffs.  “…bastard who invented these things.”  He looks up at the chuckle.  “You could help, you know” he snaps, concentrating his attention back on the second button.

I chuckle again.  “I was trying.  You slapped my hands away” I say grinning as I watch Sherlock finally open the last button.  The shirt is practically ripped off of my arms and thrown unceremoniously on to the floor with the jumper.  

“Why” Sherlock groans, “do you insist on so many layers of clothing.” And with that the stretchy shirt is yanked over my head, catching around my ears before pulling free to join the pile of clothes already on the floor.

Sherlock reattaches his lips to my neck in a kiss, all lips and teeth, and pushes me back onto the mattress.  His mouth roves over my flesh and I arch my neck to give him more access, each nip of his teeth, swipe of his tongue and suck of his lips sending tiny, intense shivers down my spine.  I can’t help the moan as I feel his lips and teeth sucking a bruise onto my neck, marking me as his.  He moves down and sucks another one onto my collar bone and then one further down on my chest.  I can’t take anymore.  I need skin on skin and my hands fly up to his shirt, fumbling with the buttons that I am undoing by touch alone.  Catching onto what I want Sherlock sits up and undoes the buttons on his cuffs, no point in making the same mistake twice, and then he moves to help with the buttons on the front of his shirt.  It isn’t long before his shirt joins my clothes on the floor and his mouth has returned to my chest, licking and sucking and biting its way across my skin.  Without thinking my hand returns back to Sherlock’s hair and I run my fingers through his curls, hardly believing that I am actually allowed to do this now.  Every now and then I tug on the hair and Sherlock lets out a gasp or a small whimper.  He continues to suck marks down my body only stopping just above the waistband of my jeans.  I hold my breath, waiting for the much needed pressure on my cock.  I feel it twitch as it waits for attention to be bestowed upon it.  But as it turns out it is going to have to wait a bit longer.  Sherlock has other ideas.  I am surprised to feel Sherlock’s tongue run around the outer rim of my bellybutton.  It is not an area I have ever really paid attention to before and I am starting to wonder why because this feels really good.  A groan rumbles up my throat as Sherlock dips his tongue into the small depression so he does it again.  Harder this time. “God, Sherlock.  Your mouth” I gasp, arching back to get closer to him, because the things that man can do with his mouth is sinful.  This should not be erotic at all, but every nerve ending seems to send out fireworks any time he administers any attention to my fucking belly button.  I can only imagine what that mouth will be like around my cock.  I don’t get to relish on that image as I throw my head back in pure pleasure as Sherlock places his mouth around my navel and sucks.  _Oh fuck_! I don’t think I will ever be able to touch this part of my body without getting a hard-on, ever again.

Before I realise his ministrations have ended his mouth is on mine again, lips against lips, tongues twining around each other, teeth knocking clumsily against teeth as we both try to get more of the other and I decide that this is not enough.  I pull away from Sherlock’s mouth and look up at him, considering our positions.  Without another thought I have flipped him so he is now under me, my body pinning his in place. 

“My turn” I growl huskily before my mouth begins its own journey down his long, smooth body. As I pay attention to his nipples I snake my hands down to undo his trousers.   I then continue down his body, leaving my own marks, stopping at his belly button.  I can only assume that his performance on me was a reflection of what he likes done himself, but before I give him what he wants I want to take a bit more for myself.  I have dreamed of this body for so long, now I want to see it in all its glory.  I sit back on my heels and throw him a wicked grin, enjoying the frustrated look and the whimper that confirm my previous assumptions.  I lean over and capture his mouth with mine again as I straddle his thighs.  I pull back as he reaches up for me and a frustrated growl leaves his lips, but I don’t let him carry through with the acerbic retort that is about to follow.  I quickly move down to the end of the bed and divest the man of his shoes and socks.  I then reach up and pull off his trousers and then his pants in quick succession.  I don’t see how Sherlock reacts to this sudden disrobing as I am too caught up in the sight before me.  Laying on my bed, stretched out and on display is the most gorgeous thing I have even seen.  Sherlock is long and sinewy.  An expanse of pale skin, unmarred except for my markings, covering muscle and tissue and bone.   Long legs that just beg to wrap around my waist, sparse hair scattering across his chest.  Another trail of dark hair just under his belly button leading down to a nest of hair at the base of his cock, and isn’t that a fucking beautiful sight.  It is long and thin, like the man himself and pink, the tip of it almost purple as blood fills it up and as I watch it, it twitches just a bit.  

“You are gorgeous” I whisper and I can’t hold back anymore.  I throw myself back over him bringing our lips back together as I gently trail my hand down his side and he….flinches?  I pull back and look down at Sherlock who has the ghost of an unwelcome smile and a scowl on his face.  I smile. “Sherlock Holmes, are you ticklish?”

“Don’t be absurd John, of course I am no….” he argues but stops when I run both hands up his sides.

He twitches and that unwelcome smile returns to his face, quickly being replaced by a frown.   “John” the warning is low.  “I really don’t think now is the time.”  In an attempt to distract me he rolls his hips up against mine. It works and I grind back, pushing my denim clad cock against his naked one.  The result is a moaning, arching detective.  “John.”  With that I place one more kiss on Sherlock’s lips and continue moving down his body until I reach his belly button again.  I place small kisses around the small dip and administer little licks, but not quite touching it.  I can hear Sherlock panting as his body writhes underneath me, trying to get contact where it is needed.  It is truly fascinating at how stimulating he finds this to be.  His hips thrust up as I gently blow on the small hole then I pull back a little bit just before I decide to put the man out of his misery.  I let my tongue dip down into the small hollow.  Sherlock moans and grabs the back of my head as I run my tongue around the inner edge, just a few times, before I move my mouth even further down.  The tip of Sherlock’s penis comes into view and it is topped by a small dribble of pre-come.  I swipe my finger over the small bead of moisture and look up at Sherlock, slowly bringing the finger to my mouth, sucking of the salty liquid.  The flavour isn’t much different to my own but just the knowledge that I have tasted Sherlock, and will be able to taste more, is leaving my light headed with sheer giddiness.  Or maybe that is just nerves of what I am about to do?   “I haven’t done this before” I say as I draw my finger out of my mouth.  I mean, what does he like?  Slow, fast, teeth, no teeth.  What is a good way to judge how much pressure to use?  I suddenly feel a great deal of gratitude for the few of my girlfriends who actually did this for me.

“So far, so good” is the only reply I get, so I shuffle back, lower my head and lick a broad strip from the base of his cock to the tip, taking in a bit more pre-come once I reach the top.  The noise this elicits from Sherlock is wonderful.  I would never have guessed he would be capable of such a high pitched sound and I decide I want to hear more. I lean in close to the prick in front of my face and contemplate my next move.  Deciding to take it slow, lest I embarrass myself, I lean forward and take, just the head of his cock in my mouth and suck.

I only register how loud the sound that Sherlock makes is before my attention is brought back to the cock in my mouth.  The cock that was only a little bit past my lips before is now hitting the back of my throat, fighting for room with the semen that is currently flooding my mouth.  Involuntary self-preservation kicks in and I pull my mouth off of Sherlock’s penis as my body coughs up all of the spunk that just tried to force itself down my oesophagus, depositing it all over Sherlock’s pelvis.  I ignore the scratching in the back of my throat and the tears streaming down my cheeks as I look up to see Sherlock trying to cover hi face on shame of ejaculating rather prematurely by hiding behind his hands.  I bite my bottom lip to keep the grin at bay but it is hard.  The sight before me shouldn’t be adorable, but it positively is.  I crawl up beside him and try to pull his hands away from his face.   

“Go away John” comes the mumbled response. 

“Sherlock, look at me” I say, trying to make myself sound concerned.  With any luck Sherlock is too preoccupied to notice the failure of the attempt.  I tug at his hands again and this time he relents.  He looks me over and I am glad to see a small smile tug at his lips.  He brings a hand up to wipe, what I am assuming is come, off of my face.   “That was embarrassing” he says quietly. 

“Or I am just that good” I say giving him a cheeky grin and Sherlock laughs before looking up at the ceiling with a sigh.   “I don’t believe that happened” he says flatly. Then a horrified frown comes over his face and he adds, “That has never happened.”

“Welcome to the world of us mere mortals” I tell him as I lean into his neck.  God, he has so much neck.  I could spend hours mapping it with my lips.  Maybe later I will.  “Sometimes that happens” I add as I lick a stripe from his shoulder up to behind his ear.   Sherlock turns his face towards mine and I lean in and kiss him.  “Sherlock” I whisper urgently, grinding my hips against his, bringing attention to the one cock in this room which has had no attention.

In response I am rolled onto my back and Sherlock’s eyes are wide and black, hungrier than they were before.  The sight is breath taking and terrifying all at once.  “What do you want, Sherlock” I ask as Sherlock’s mouth moves down to my neck.  He licks up my throat, over my chin and into my mouth before whispering   “I want to fuck you.” 

That one sentence sends a wave of pleasure pulsing through my body, settling at the base of my cock and I groan into the kiss.  Before Sherlock the idea of ever doing this had never appealed to me, but these past few months it had fuelled some of my hottest fantasies.

“Top drawer” I pant, hoping that he knows that I am referring to the condoms and lube.  Apparently, he does, but he can’t seem to pull himself away from me, instead, reaching out blindly and tugging the drawer open so far that it comes out of the cupboard, spilling the contents on the floor.   With a frustrated groan Sherlock pulls himself away from me and fumbles around with the contents now on the ground.  When he comes back it is with his trademark questioningly cocked eyebrow and a bottle of green liquid in his hand.

“What?” I say, cocking my eyebrow back at him.  “It is handy to find when the lights are out.”

Sherlock just shrugs and sits back on his heels, his hand finally settling on my cock and I can’t help the gasp that escapes my lips.  

“That must be uncomfortable” he says applying more pressure and if I wasn’t so desperate for him to get me off I would seriously think about murdering the bastard right about now.  I seriously consider whether I need him or not after he purrs, “Painful even” with a smug grin on his face as he rubs his hand slowly up and then down.  Sherlock fucking Holmes was a tease.  I would be getting him back for this later on.  I lower my hands to undo the button on my jeans when suddenly they are restrained above my head and I am more turned on than I thought I would have been in this scenario.   “That is not for you to touch” he whispers in my ear.  “Leave them there” I am ordered before he returns his hands to my lower half.  They slowly make their way over my thighs, skirting around my cock, to move up and undo my jeans.  Slowly the zip is undone and I see Sherlock’s gaze widen, just a bit, as he notices the red pants I am wearing.  Apparently he approves.  Slowly Sherlock drags my jeans down my legs, not taking his eyes from the bright red cloth before him.

“Sherlock” I say, quietly, as I try to kick my shoes off, but I wore my boots today and that is easier said than done.  

“No talking” he orders.  I try again as he nears my ankles, still not watching what he is doing.  

“But, Sherlock!” and I am cut off with a “Shhh.”

Just then he goes to give my trousers one final tug, obviously expecting them to pull free of my feet, but what happens instead is the momentum of them being pulled back and then coming to a sudden halt causes the detective to go tumbling over the side of the bed and I can’t help the bark of laughter that erupts from my mouth.   Quickly, but still laughing, I crawl over to where he fell and peer over the edge of the bed.  “Are you all right?” I ask between gasps of laughter.  The response I get is a rather intense frown. 

“Why did you kick me off the bed?” he grumbled and this only makes me laugh harder.  Only we could get into this situation.  No one else on the planet could turn what should have been a simple bout of hot, filthy sex, into a three part comedy.

“I didn’t kick…oh my god, this is so funny.”  I have to stop to control the laughter and then I sit around so my legs are hanging over the edge.  I see the realisation wash over the detectives face almost instantly.  

“I tried to warn you, twice, but you weren’t listening.”  I tell him, still fighting to hold the laughter in, as apparently Sherlock doesn’t find this amusing at all.  It doesn’t take long for the detective to pull off my shoes, then my trousers and then finally my socks and I can’t help but grin down at him, naked, on my floor, glaring at a pair of brown boots.  Quickly his attention is turned back to me and he is back on the bed herding me up the mattress.  As I reach the top he pushes me onto my back with one hand and grabs my cock with his other.  All traces of amusement leave my body as the need to be touched, fucked, _consumed_ takes over.

Slowly, Sherlock tugs the waistband of my pants, revealing the head of my erection, slowly pulling them down further, exposing the shaft and then the base followed by balls, which are feeling rather tight and heavy.  He runs a finger through the hair at the base of my cock and it is too much because it is not nearly enough.

“Sherlock” I gasp.  “Please.”

Sherlock runs his finger, not closer to my aching cock as I had hoped he would, but to my perineum.  The contact is so light and I try thrusting up to get more touch but his free hand holds my hips in place.  Gently the finger moves over and over that sensitive stretch of skin and my failed attempts at bucking my hips come to a halt when that finger slides down to my anus.  I was expecting this, but now that his finger is there I don’t know what to do.  Gently his finger traces the small circle around and around and then it applies pressure and I tense up involuntarily. 

“Relax” he tells me with a softness I never expected to come from Sherlock.  I do and he pushes against the pucker again.  “Have you done this before?” He asks reducing the pressure and returning to tracing small circles around.  I nod because I have.  Once, just after the massage, I had given into the urge, but hadn’t managed any more than two fingers.  “To yourself?”  I nod again, my mouth refusing to open up and form words.  “Often?” I shake my head.  There is a brief touch of lips against mine as he murmurs “I’ll go slowly.”

My pants are quickly removed the rest of the way, the final piece to join the mountain of cotton and wool and silk that had formed on my bedroom floor and my knees are bent up and spread apart.  I should feel uncomfortable, completely vulnerable, but apart from the slight nervous hum buzzing through my body I find myself trusting the man currently settled between my parted thighs.  It feels right.

I listen as Sherlock applies lube to his fingers and once more I feel his fingers at my entrance and I force my body to relax, because I do actually want this to happen, and the gentle placement of his spare hand on my stomach helps me do just that.  It is only a simple touch but it is just as intimate as the one between my legs.  Gently I feel the pressure on my entrance increase and then the tip of Sherlock’s finger breaches that first ring of muscle.  Automatically my muscles clench at the foreign intrusion.  To counter my discomfort the hand on my stomach starts rubbing small circles which is surprisingly soothing and distracting and I feel my body start to relax, allowing Sherlock to push his finger all the way in.  It feels so tight but the slight stretch soon disappears and soon it is feeling good.  Better than when I had tried it myself.  I am really starting to enjoy the smooth slide of Sherlock’s finger inside of me when suddenly there is another finger at my entrance.  They don’t push all the way in but my muscles tighten again, not expecting the addition so soon.  The thrusting of the fingers slow back down and gradually they work in and out, in and out, until Sherlock can push both in without any resistance.  The stretching feeling turns into one of a burning pain as Sherlock spreads his fingers and a hiss forces its way out of my mouth.  Sherlock continues the thrusting, with the occasional spreading, each time spreading more and more, and the burning soon disappears and the pleasure builds up.  I am just relaxing fully into his ministrations when suddenly I feel his fingers bend inside of me and something hot and electrifying and fucking fantastic zaps through my body.  The feeling is so intense, my back arches, lifting my body off of the bed.  

“Fucking hell” I moan as I settle back on the bed.  Now I know what having my prostate stimulated feels like and I start to question myself why I have never done this before.  My nerves are still tingling as Sherlock continues to thrust and spread his fingers until suddenly there is nothing.  He has pulled his hand away and a small cry slips out of my mouth as the sudden loss of contact.  

“Shh” Sherlock reassures as he hold up the bottle of lube, adding more to his fingers.  He places his hands back to where they were and starts rubbing circles onto my stomach again.  Slowly I feel the tip of one finger enter followed by the second and I want to groan at the feeling that I know is coming but then I feel the tip of the third, and even though I know that any discomfort won’t last I can’t help but clench at the adjusted intrusion, which is frustrating, as all I really want at this point is Sherlock’s cock, in me, now! 

Slowly I get my muscles to relax and Sherlock is able to work his fingers in and the discomfort is only very brief.  As Sherlock thrusts his fingers into me I push down, trying to get him to hit my prostate again, wanting to feel that surge of ecstasy again, and then suddenly, there it is.  Not as intense as the first time, but still just as arousing.  Sherlock continues to thrust, his hand moving faster now and he hit’s my prostate again.  And then again.  I can’t help the writhing as my body aches, craves for more and I bring my hand down to grasp my cock, which has gone untouched this entire time. I need to feel more.  My hand doesn’t reach its destination and I groan in pleasure/frustration as my hand is slapped away and I am told “Not yours to touch Doctor Watson” and another wave of lust rolls through my body at hearing the title. That’s something to think about later, but for now I have more pressing matters to see to, like getting him to up the game.  I look down at him to tell him to hurry the fuck up but my mouth stops working as I watch him lean over my stomach and lick up the small puddle of pre-come which had pooled just below my belly button, and that is it.  I. Can. Not. Wait. Any longer.   “Sherlock” I growl, pushing down on the fingers that have slowed down inside of me, trying to feel more.  “More….I need more.”

I want to sob as his fingers slide out of me, the feeling of being so empty, so quickly causing me to take a sharp inhale.  I watch, hungrily, as Sherlock coats his cock in a thick layer of lube and then he leans over, his lips on mine, trailing one hand up my side and over my chest while the other hand guides his cock to my now very open entrance and that is when my doctor brain kicks in.  

“Condoms.  On the floor” I moan into his mouth, rolling my hips up, urging him to not waste any more time, but he doesn’t move.  Instead his lips travel down my jaw to that wonderfully magical spot near my ear that could quite possible turn me into a puddle of goo if he spent more than a few seconds there. “Should we maybe have thought about that before I came in your mouth?” he murmurs as he licks and kisses the area that is currently making it hard for me to form coherent thoughts, let alone speech. “And it is not necessary.  I am clean.  I haven’t done anything since I was last tested, and you were tested two weeks ago.”  This statement does clear the fog in my head and I pull away and look up at him.

“I think I would remember that Sherlock.” Sherlock ignores me in favour of continuing his administrations to my neck and I am starting to go gooey again.  

“The organ harvesting case.  I took your blood myself.  Had Molly send it to the labs to get tested.  You came back clean as a whistle, so I repeat.  Not.  Necessary.”  He replies punctuating the last two words with a lick to my neck.

I let out a small huff of laughter.  Of course that was a way of getting more information about me, although, if he had just asked I could have told him that I had had a general blood works done as part of my annual check-up a week before that.  “Controlling wanker” I smile up at him and this earns me a glare from the detective.

“Lately, yes, no thanks to you, and I would very much like to put an end to it, so if you have quite finished talking I would like to proceed to the part where I get to actually fuck you.”

It’s that word again, _Fuck_ , and I cannot help the way that it turns me on, the way it rumbles out of his throat.  “You are such a sweet talker” I tell him and reach up for a kiss, which he happily returns as he repositions his cock.  This time I don't stop him. Slowly I can feel the blunt head pushing forward, slowly breaching the ring of tight muscle and I can feel myself tensing up, knowing that this is far more than the width of three fingers.  I am forcing myself to relax when I feel long fingers wrap around my cock, _finally_ , and my head drops back on the pillow.  “Oh, God” I moan at the intense feeling currently causing through my body and my hips rock up, pushing more of Sherlock’s cock into me.  I vaguely hear Sherlock make a noise but the blood rushing in my ears makes it hard to concentrate as his hand starts pumping my cock, slowly in time with the thrusting of his hips.  Up and down, In and out, over and over again until he stops, and I realise that Sherlock is completely seated in my body.  I take a few shuddering breaths and allow my body to adjust to the feeling of being so full, my muscles gradually relaxing around Sherlock.  Then he leans down, licks a bead of sweat running down my forehead and he starts moving.  On every pull out there is a slight burn that makes me gasp, but it is forgotten with the feeling of Sherlock pushing back into me and as his thrusts pick up they get faster and harder the burn is no longer there.  Instead every nerve ending inside of me is singing and my hips are thrusting up to meet his, trying to take him deeper.  I moan his name, over and over again as he pumps his hand over my prick in time with his own thrusting into me, and when I decide that it just isn’t enough I bring my legs up and wrap them around his waist, pulling him in closer.  The angle changes and suddenly my body is buzzing again as the head of Sherlock’s cock hits my prostate.  I cry out and try to pull him in closer again, digging my nails into his back as the rhythm becomes erratic, our movements becoming animalistic as he slides in and out of me generating  pleasure like I have never felt before which is balling and coiling in my gut as he hits that wonderful ball of nerves over and over again.  Before I know it that ball of pleasure, of pure lust, breaks open and washes through my entire body.  I am vaguely aware of a sound being ripped from my throat, but I am too blissed out to actually give a fuck.

I hear a loud, throaty “JOHN” before I feel Sherlock spill over inside of, a sensation I never would have guessed would feel good, but it does as I feel it squelching around his cock as he thrusts three more times before he drops his body down onto mine.  I don’t even care that I can feel my own come smearing between the two of us. 

All I care about is the man I currently have in my arms, both of us covered in sweat and come, hearts beating erratically, breaths coming short and fast.

“We should have done this sooner” I say once we have both calmed down.

“If you weren’t so stubborn we could have been doing it three months ago” comes the sleepy reply from on top of me.  

Right, mental note: sex makes one consulting detective sleepy.  Good to know. 

“What is so special about three months ago?” I ask, feeling tired myself.  “You said before, how you had been waiting for three months.”

“That is when I decided to seduce you.”  Comes the reply as the man on top of me tries to wriggle closer onto me.

I laugh at Sherlock’s unexpected cuddly behaviour and his admission that he had been trying to seduce me.  “Is that what you have been doing?”

This earns me another glare from the detective before he burrows his head back into my shoulder.  “Of course that is what I was doing.  What did you think I have been doing?”

I pull him into my body even further as I try not to think about how it felt to be the subject of some twisted experiment and tighten my embrace.  “I will admit I did notice that you have been acting strange, but I thought it was some sort of experiment.  I thought I was going mad.”

Apparently Sherlock decides that he is not close enough to me and wriggles against me, trying to obliterate any minuscule area of dead space between us.  This action causes his cock to slide out of me, which had felt perfectly natural until it wasn’t there anymore.  Apparently this extra loss of contact doesn’t sit well with the detective as he tries to wriggle closer still as he continues his explanation.  “I made it rather obvious John, you just weren’t paying attention.”

“What, you mean the banana and swanning around the flat half dressed.  Then you kept going to that bloody club.  And all after that first night when you told me that you were married to your work.  What was I supposed to think?”  I tense up at the thought of the initial rejection and the thought of Giles, or whoever the tall blond was.  Sherlock must notice this as he gently glides his hand up and down my side and I feel myself calming down.  

“The club was to make you jealous, because nothing else was working” he tells me sounding sleepy again.  “And everything else almost worked.  You almost kissed me” he says with a yawn.  “Why didn’t you?”

I smile at the sleepy bundle currently situated on my chest while I think about how to answer that.

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted” I finally offer.  “I honestly thought you would never want me, not really.  I am nothing like you.  I just thought, like I said before, it was an experiment and I knew that if I kissed you, if I let myself down that road, I wouldn’t recover from your eventual rejection.”   I stop talking to see if he has anything to say, to ask, but I am met with silence, so I continue.   “Then, the other night, you called me perfect and I let myself believe that maybe I was good enough, and I started looking back at all of your odd behaviour and I saw that in some weird, twisted, utterly you way, you were trying to get my attention.  So I applied your methods and here we are.” I conclude and tighten my embrace on him just that little bit more.  Now that I have him here, I don’t ever want to let him go again.

“Here we are” he repeats, quietly.  “Not quite the perfect first time I imagined, but yes, here we are.”

I let out a little chuckle.  Perfect was definitely not what tonight was.  It was better.  “Perfect is for story books.  I wouldn’t change a thing about tonight if I could.”

I am totally taken back by Sherlock’s next words.  “You are perfect John Watson.  I love you.”  My body goes into a minnie shock and I can feel my heartbeat increase as it does a little happy dance inside of my chest.

“I love you too, Sherlock” I whisper into his hair, followed by a soft press of lips against his curls.

We lay like that for a while longer before the room starts to feel cold and the mess between our bodies starts to itch.  “We should really go have a shower” I mumble.  Sherlock’s responding groan mirrors the way that I feel about the idea, but my stomach is really starting to tingle, and not in a good way either.

“Fine, but from now on, we do this in my room.  No stairs” He finally mumbles back.

I can’t help but agree that that is a fantastic idea, and I let him know.  “Agreed” I say, pushing on Sherlock’s shoulders, trying to encourage him to move.  He does and we both wince as the dried semen that had delicately glued us together, peels away from our skin.  But I honestly can’t be bothered caring because tonight I got Sherlock Holmes and nothing else matters.


	4. It's All Wonderful, Until Maybe It Isn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are finally together, but John's fears that he may not be enough to keep Sherlock's attention for long are starting to come to surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies, here it is, a brand new chapter, a story all of John’s own. 
> 
> Every now and then there may be something borrowed from the series but I am trying to leave all that to an absolute minimum
> 
> Also I would just like to throw out a big warm fuzzy to all of you who have read and enjoyed so far. Your love is like a warm blue scarf wrapped around my heart. So without further ado, I give to you, chapter 4.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Herbert?” comes a deep voice, cracked by hours of disuse and possibly other…activities.

“Hmmm?” I respond, because random names are not the thing one normally hears after opening their eyes for the first time in the morning. And what a wonderful morning it is.

“Your middle name. Herbert?”

A solitary huff of laughter is pushed out through my nostrils.

“Is that the only reason you wanted to get me into your bed. So I would finally divulge what the mysterious H between the John and the Watson on my resume’ is?”

Sherlock rolled over further so he was now on me rather than just curled up into my side, where he had been the entire night, arms and legs thrown over my body, pinning me in place so even if I had wanted to move, it would have been impossible. I never would have guessed Sherlock to be the cuddly type, but here he is, throwing everything I thought I knew on its side and shaking it up good and proper. As per usual.

“No” he replies sleepily, “not the reason, but I had thought that three rather spectacular orgasms would have swayed your decision in holding out on said information more into my favour.” And he wriggled in closer, both of his arms and legs now caging me in place, winding around my own limbs. He is like a four limbed octopus. _A Locktopus_ I think to myself. My Locktopus. I grin at the new moniker and, using my new found intimate knowledge of his body, work at planning my escape so I can use the toilet.

“I’m not telling” I grin as I press a kiss to the top of his head while at the same time manoeuvring my hand, just enough, to gently graze up his side.

The reaction is instant as his body jerks up and away as a rather high pitched “John” is pulled from his mouth. I chuckle as I roll out from under him and quickly get off the bed.

“That is dirty play” the sulking detective growls as I head towards the bathroom door, scooping up my pants from the floor.

“I know” I reply with a grin over my shoulder and a wink before I disappear from sight.

I am just washing my hands when Sherlock strolls into the bathroom, naked, to use the toilet, despite the fact that I am standing not even two feet away from him.

“Lestrade called. There has been a murder” he tells me as in the same tone a normal person might tell me that they are going to head out down to the shops to get some milk but Sherlock is not a normal person, nor does he ever go down to the shop to get milk.

“So then I guess it is no good suggesting we stay in bed for the entire day making ourselves more familiar with each other, then?”

Sherlock flushes the toilet and then steps up behind me, reaching around to place his hands under the running tap. He nuzzles into my neck, his voice coming out in a low rumble, “I’ll just have to use that as incentive to wrap the case up sooner” and I distinctively feel a rather prominent bulge pushing into my arse cheek. A low moan leaves my throat and Sherlock chuckles, pulling me away from the sink and pushing me in the direction of the bedroom. “Get dressed. I told Lestrade we would be there in half an hour.”

~o~

I walk into the living room where Sherlock is standing in front of the mirror adjusting his scarf, covering the love bite I had left there late last night. The only, publicly, physical evidence of out intimacy. I swallow the lump that is starting to grow in my throat. Maybe he is cold? I think.  The weather is starting to come in cooler, maybe not scarf weather, but cool all the same. I contemplate going back up to my room to get my scarf and then think against it. That would look odd, both of us wrapped up against an imaginary cold, especially since even when it really is cold I don’t often wear my scarf.

Or, I tell myself more optimistically, he just wants to keep _us_  to ourselves because _we_  are new and he doesn’t want to have to share _us_  with anyone just yet. I quite like that idea myself. We haven’t even been together for twelve hours. Hell, _I_ don’t want to share that with everyone just yet. As Sherlock finishes with his scarf and moves on to fiddle with an errant curl that won’t stay down I quickly duck into the bathroom and check that my neck is adequately covered by my shirt collar. Not as easy as it sounds, since Sherlock sucked his bite rather high up, but so long as I don’t go stretching my neck like some stunted giraffe it should be okay.

“Ready?” Sherlock asks, waiting by the door, as I make my way back into the living room. With a nod we are headed off down the stairs and before I have even had a chance to shut the front door Sherlock has worked his taxi magic and hailed us a cab.

~o~

The scene looks rather straight forward. Robbery gone wrong. Home owner, in this case a Ms Edith Caruthers, came home and interrupted the would-be thief who panicked and hit her over the head with a rather heavy, solid marble likeness of Ghandi. Multiple times. It was clear, even to John that he had entered through the back door, jimmying it open with a crowbar. According to the nephew, who found her, nothing much had been taken. Just her purse, some jewellery and some spare cash she kept around the house. The fact that it was the fourth identical murder this month is why Greg had finally caved in and pulled Sherlock in.

I watch Sherlock as he flits around the room, touching, peering, smelling things, looking for things that no one else sees and I feel the small smile that is trying to tug the corners of my mouth up. I now have an intimate vision of how that body moves underneath all of those clothes, without the flaring coat and impeccable suits. I know how that body looks when it is lost in the throes of passion and lust, when the mind slows down to a point where simple sentences are hard to form. I watch his face as he snaps out some insult in Anderson’s direction and I think to myself that I know what sorts of noises that mouth can make. Noises that no one else would believe would be capable of coming from between those plush lips and then I realise that I am starting to get hard and I need to turn away and leave the room, under the guise of looking for more evidence. I am looking in the kitchen at the door where the intruder had entered. Forensics had already been through here and there was black marks from where they had dusted for prints.

I am looking to the top of the door when a familiar figure stands next to me, a cool long finger tugging at the collar of my shirt.

“Ooh, looks like someone got lucky last night” Sally Donovan practically sings. “Good to see that the freak isn’t taking up all of your time.” I pull away from her touch and go to tell her exactly what I think of her assumptions when I look up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, one eyebrow raised in an impatient cock. He gives his normal eye roll at the back of Donovan’s head and strolls past her to get closer to the door himself. “If this is how you conduct an investigation, Sergeant Donovan, it is no wonder Lestrade feels the need to call me in.” This is all said without looking at me once, his Hawke like gaze drawn directly to the damaged doorframe, loupe in hand.

“Jealous?” Is Donovan’s response. Sherlock continues his meticulous study of the door frame, paying particular attention now to the hinges as he replies. “I can assure you I am most certainly not jealous of the way John Watson spends his spare time.”

I keep the smirk to myself as Donovan snorts and huffs away, leaving us alone in the room.

“Any ideas?” I ask as Sherlock concentrates on the damage to the doorframe left by the crowbar.

“Several” he murmurs, “but none of them support the interrupted break-in theory.”

“Not what I wanted to hear” Lestrade groans as he walks into the kitchen. Sherlock just shrugs, apparently not bothered by what Lestrade did or did not want to hear.

“Surely even you, Lestrade, must know that the chances of four identical killings, all being a result of an uninterrupted robbery, is slim to none.”

Greg sighs. “Yeah, but I was hoping that what I usually see as logical was apparently obviously wrong.”

“Not this time Glen. This time, you would have been correct.”

 _“Greg_ ” Greg groans out, not that it would matter. Sherlock is apparently determined to call Greg every other G name under the sun before he actually gets it right. “And of course it would have been right. The only time I discarded it.”

“Never mind. I’m sure you will get it right some time” and with that he sweeps out of the room, coat tails flaring out dramatically as he turns the corner.

“So…?” Greg hums.

“I have no idea” I tell him. I am still as lost as I was when I entered the house. Actually I am more lost as I had agreed with Greg’s original theory.

“Just get him to call me when he finds anything, yeah?”

“Sure thing. You still heading to Cardiff this weekend?”

“If I can get away from this before night fall, yeah. What about you. Any plans for the weekend?”

John goes to open his mouth to say he plans to spend all weekend in bed but then remembers that they are not advertising the relationship. “Just crap telly and take away.”

Greg has that longing look in his eye, as if that is what he’d rather be doing. John decides it’s best not to comment. Instead he says “I’d better find him before he makes someone cry.” and head for the door, following in Sherlocks step.

“Yeah, it’s been almost a month. I’d like to beat the last record” Greg calls after me.

“Which was...?” I ask before I leave the kitchen.

“One month, one week and three days” Greg answers, mouth flat but eyes sparkling.

“Anderson?” I ask.

A smile breaks out on Greg’s face. “Anderson” he confirms and I can’t help the chuckle as I head down the hallway to the sound of Sherlock telling someone that a mole would be more observant that them.

~o~

The case had taken less than 48 hours and had come down to a simple case of ‘ _a secret between six people can be kept if five of them are dead._ ’ In this case it was six friends a drug induced orgy over ten years ago and one person panicking because she was suddenly scared her extremely wealthy husband would find out about them and divorce her, leaving her with nothing. As it turns out, he wouldn’t have minded because he slept with three of the murdered people on a semi-regular basis and if they had just been open with each other they could have been having guilt-free, group sex on a regular basis. Sherlock had solved the case and the suspect had been caught before carrying out the last murder.

In the time that it took to solve the case there hasn’t been time to eat anything more substantial than a cup of tea and a muffin or catch anything more that a couple hours of sleep let alone anything more intimate, but apparently Sherlock has every intentions of making up for that.

The taxi hasn’t even made it back to the flat before his hand is gently travelling up my thigh. I go to protest, but even in the low light of the back of the taxi I can see the hungry look on Sherlock’s face, the dark pupils, the flushed cheeks, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, and every argument leaves my body. His hand slides from the top of my thigh over to the now hardening bulge in my trousers and I bite my lips together to keep in the small gasp. He drops his head down to the side of my neck and starts licking at the spot under my ear, just small, kitten licks, but it is enough to make my breaths come out harder and shorter. I bring my hand up and place it on his cheek, pulling him in closer, encouraging him to continue and my hips thrust up, just a bit, into the hand cupped over my erection. A small moan leaves his mouth and then suddenly he sits up, withdrawing his hand.

“Wha…” I go to argue, just as the cab pulls over to the kerb in front of 221B. “Oh.”

Sherlock is out of the cab, practically before it comes to a full stop and I am left, as usual, to pay the fair, while he unlocks the door. By the time I have closed the door on the black vehicle he has the front door opened and is already stepping inside. I grin as I quickly follow him shutting the door behind me as he bounds up the stairs, taking them two at a time. By the time I reach the living room Sherlock’s coat is hanging on the hook. I take mine off and hang it next to his as I notice his suit jacket on the floor near the kitchen door. I walk into the kitchen and notice one of his shoes in the middle of the kitchen floor, a sock not too far from it. In the hallway is his shirt and, oddly enough the second sock before the next shoe. I look up to the bedroom door and see a pair of black trousers hastily dropped in a crumpled heap and I make my way to the door, slowly unbuttoning my shirt on the way. As I reach the door a pair of black pants are thrown at me and I catch them just before they hit me in the face.

“Hurry up John” the now very naked and very tempting detective demands from where he is spread out on the bed, hand gently running up and down over his very erect cock.

“Impatient, are we?” I ask, removing my shirt in a purposely slow fashion. Sherlock watches every move I make with narrowed eyes. After my shirt is removed comes my undershirt, then I slip out of my shoes and toe out of my socks as my hands work on my belt, all at a slower than normal pace.

“You are purposely drawing this out, John. I assure you, if you continue this way you will end up regretting it.” Sherlock’s voice is low and rough and my cock twitches as reach down to the button on my jeans, just at the sound of it.

“Is that so?” I challenge him as I. Slowly. Un. Do. My. Jeans.

“Yes” is the growled reply and suddenly he is lurching his body forward, grabbing the now lax waist of my jeans and pulling me to the edge of the bed. In one swift movement my jeans, and my pants are pooled around my ankles and I barely have time to step out of them before I am pulled onto the bed, on my back with six foot of pale skin and dark curls stretched above me.

“It has been 43 hours, and nearly twenty minutes, since I last saw you naked. Since I last tasted your skin. Since I last heard your moans. That is not good enough.” His lips suck on my ear lobe as he urgently whispers these words into my ear. “Do you know how hard it has been, how hard I have been, watching you these past two days and knowing that you are mine to touch but knowing that I can’t” his voice is now a ragged moan as his kisses move down my throat (I ignore the voice that whispers that he doesn’t stop to suck another mark into my flesh) to my shoulder and his tongue laps at the scar that is spread across the skin. I can only whimper in response because, yes, I do know what it was like. His teeth are now nipping at the raised flesh and although the feeling in that general area is minimal the sensation still sends small ripples of pleasure down my spine. “I imagined, so many times, bending you over any surface, and there were so many options, and fucking you hard or pushing you to your knees, thrusting my cock into your mouth. It was all I could do not to give into those urges. The want pushed me to solve the case faster so I could get you back home and have my way with you all over again.”

Again, I whimper as he moves onto my left nipple, because at the moment my brain has forgotten how to form words. Sherlock suddenly pulls himself up level with my face again and presses his lips against mine. Hot and needy, his tongue pushing its way between my lips, invading my mouth as he rolls his hips against mine, his erection rubbing up against my stomach, next to mine, but not quite touching. I push my own body up against his in response and am met with a low moan as Sherlock’s hand moves down to wrap around my cock. Slowly his hand tugs up and then releases me.

“God, John” he moans into my mouth. “Touch me” he pleads, so I do. I lower my hand down to his cock and wrap my fingers around. Setting up a quick rhythm I start jerking him off eliciting little whimpers on every upstroke from the man above me. His hips start thrusting into my hand and his head is hanging down, his eyes clenched shut as he works with my hand, picking up a faster, harder pace. I watch his face as I feel him getting tighter, a thin sheen of sweat covering his brow and upper lip, his gorgeous lips lax and opened, just slightly as his breaths come out fast and jagged. Suddenly his eyes fly open, wide, and his mouth forms a beautiful heart shaped O and my hand is filling with warm come, dripping down my wrist, some of it spatters up onto my stomach. Sherlock lets out a low, long moan and drops down next to me, breathing hard.

Sherlock grabs my wrist and brings my hand up to his face where he inspects the mess that is still dribbling down my wrist then he brings it to his mouth and licks a stripe over my palm, leaving a clean strip of skin. My breath catches in my throat as he looks me in the eye and does it again, cleaning his own come off of my hand. He does it again, and again until there is no more trace of him on my arm, then he straddles my hips and shuffles down until his face is level with my stomach, lapping up the come that made its way there as well. He licks down, further and further, paying extra attention to my belly button which pulls a groan from my throat before he continues down. He licks around my cock which is quite hard, almost painful, by now, paying brief attention to my balls before moving his attention to the crease between my groin and right leg. The every lick of his tongue, nip of his teeth or suck of his lips leaves a tiny electric spark on my skin, slowly setting my nerves on fire. He moves over to the other crease and I am a writhing mess beneath him, my hand in his hair, tugging, trying to direct his mouth to where I need it to be the most. Around my cock.

“Sherlock” I gasp as he bites and then sucks a mark onto the skin of my inner thigh. His tongue comes out to lick over it before placing an identical mark on the other thigh. “Please. I need more” I beg, trying to thrust my hips up in search of friction against…anything, but his hands pin me down as he continues his ministrations on the sensitive skin of my thighs. Finally he pulls over and reaches for the lube which is now permanently on top of the bedside cupboard instead of in the drawer. I let out a sigh as I watch him coat his fingers and spread my legs wider as a form of encouragement to hurry the fuck up. But he doesn’t lower his hand down to my arse, as I expect him to. Instead he reaches behind and, although I can’t see exactly what he is doing, I can safely assume that he is fingering himself. I try to sit up, wanting to see this, but he puts a hand out, pushing me back down, as he continues to open himself up. I lay back on the bed and watch as the form above me arches back, dropping his head back exposing the long column of his throat, eyes closed as he bites his bottom lip, a vision of pure lust as he thrusts back onto his fingers, over and over again. I can’t help it, I bring my hand down to my cock and start working it over the turgid flesh. Suddenly Sherlock’s head snaps forward and he glares down at me. His spare hand, which was currently playing with one of his nipples drops down to my wrist and stops my hand mid-stroke. Without a word, just a glare to tell me that I am to remain hands-off Sherlock removes my hand and places it by my side before going back to opening himself up, the only sound in the room is my heavy breathing, Sherlock’s panting and the occasional wet sound of Sherlock’s fingers thrusting into his body. After what seems like an eternity Sherlock removes his fingers. With a dark, very arousing, look down at me he squirts more lube into his hand and lathers it over my now extremely hard cock. I groan and arch up into the touch, feeling it throb in Sherlock’s hand. “God, Sherlock. Now” I plead, but Sherlock just gives it a few extra slow strokes before pulling his hand off and positioning his body over my hips. With a seductive, yet somehow slightly scary grin Sherlock leans over and kisses me as he slowly sinks down on to my cock, every now and then pulling up until only the tip is in him, before sinking back down. He repeats this process over and over again, up and down, slowly taking more and more of me every time he goes down. Once he is fully seated he stops kissing me and we lay pressed together, forehead against forehead, chest and stomach to chest and stomach, arse to pelvis, just breathing in each other’s air. Sherlock gives a small rotation of his hips and I can’t help but gasp at the feelings it sends through my groin. I go to thrust up, but suddenly his hands are on my hips, holding me down. I open my eyes and look into his face, slightly concerned by the grin that has spread across his mouth.

“I told you that you would regret it” he grins, obviously referring to my somewhat striptease earlier, and rotates his hips again. A groan of frustration mixed with pleasure leaves my mouth and I try thrusting again, but Sherlock’s hands only tighten on my hips. He licks a line from the corner of my mouth to my ear and whispers, “If you fight it, I will just draw it out even longer.” I whimper as he licks into my ear before he pulls back to whisper again, “I’ve already had release, thank you very much, not even fifteen minutes ago. I can go for quite a while longer yet before I need it again. Hours, even” and he sucks my earlobe into his mouth and I shudder. I don’t know if it is due to his mouth’s current actions or the threat of being left, wanting, needing, for an indefinite amount of time. Sherlock pumps his hips forward, just once and I groan. He does it again and I groan again. Ever so slowly he continues the thrust of his hips against mine and I feel my cock slowly slipping out of his body, before being pushed back in, over and over again. It is enough to raise my heartbeat, to leave me panting and arching up for more contact. It is enough to drive me insane. But it is not enough to get off. Twice I go to grab his cock as it slaps against his stomach each time he thrusts into me, hoping to encourage him to move faster and both times my hands are slapped away. The second time I am warned that for every time I attempt to touch his cock a further ten minutes will be added to the slow torture that is burning my body up.

Sherlock’s thrusts speed up, just slightly, and I don’t realise that it is happening at first, so subtle are the changes. His mouth works its way over my chest, teasing my nipples and sucking more marks onto my flesh. My hands move to Sherlock’s hair, running through the dark curls and tugging and pulling when the torment feels like it is getting too much. Whenever I think I am finally on the brink of coming Sherlock stops any movement of his hips and focuses on using his lips to drive me crazy for a few minutes before he starts moving his hips again, thrusting slowly against mine.

Swearing at him and telling him to just hurry the fuck up earns me a pinched nipple or a sharp bite to my shoulder. Trying to thrust up makes him slow back down as his hands dig into my hips, stilling them. I am bound to have finger shaped bruises on them come tomorrow but I really couldn’t give a fuck, so long as I just get to come. Finally Sherlock returns his lips back to mine and administers the most filthy kiss I have ever participated in and all I can to is moan into his mouth and reciprocate as best I can, considering I am sure half of my brain has shut down and finally, finally, his hips pick up pace, moving faster and faster, the slick sounds of my cock thrusting in and out of his arse interspersed with my moans and Sherlock’s heavy breathing fill the room. I am right on the brink of coming, my balls drawn tight against my body, thrumming with a need so bad that it aches, my cock is hard and tight and starting to become oversensitive, but I can’t seem to break.

“Sherlock” I whimper. “Please…” I am not sure what I am begging for but Sherlock, being the genius and all, apparently gets it as he tilts his body back, changing the angle of the thrusting, and tightens his muscles around my cock as he pushes down. Three more thrusts and a heat washes through my body, concentrating at the base of my cock and I scream out Sherlock’s name as I thrust up, hard and come, hard, pulsing up into his body with what seems like a never-ending stream of come, my body arching to the point where I’m sure my spine will snap and an intense pleasure, like I have never felt before, attacks every single nerve ending in my body and I practically sob as I come down from what is, hands-down, the best orgasm I have ever had. Somewhere, somehow, I am vaguely aware of Sherlock shouting out and I feel the splash of warm semen landing on my abdomen before he falls down on top of me, breathing hard, and I can’t be arsed caring that he is exhausted. He bloody deserves it.

“You” I quietly breathe out, still trying to get my breathing under control, “are a fucking arse.”

I feel him grin against the side of my neck. “You enjoyed every second of it” he grumbled.

I want to protest but I can’t. One, because I am too exhausted and two, because he is right. So instead I push him off of me, my cock sliding out of him, followed by a trail of lube and come. “Because you have left me half dead” I tell him, “You can go get the flannel and clean me up.”

“Later” he murmurs sleepily as he moves into his apparently customary spot of moulding himself against my side. I push him away before he gets a chance to throw his arm and leg over me, pinning me in place. “Nuh-uh” and I budge him towards the edge of the bed. “I am not going to sleep like this. We tried that last night. It started to itch. Flannel, now.” I instruct, and with a sulky huff, he rolls out of bed and stalks into the bathroom. Less than a minute later he is back and with quick efficiency I am cleaned up and surrounded by long limbs, with a face pushed up against the side of my neck, calm warm breaths blowing over my clavicle. Before long the sounds of Sherlock’s breathing has been taken over by the tiny little snore that I discovered on our first night together. I smile at the minute grumbles of breath and close my eyes, following my Locktopus into slumber.

~o~

Life in 221B Baker Street continues on as it always has except now there is sex. _Oh!_ So much sex.

We still argue over snails in the bathroom cabinet and pancreases in the grill but it is always followed by fabulous orgasms. Sherlock still does bugger all around the flat but that is okay. He makes up for it in the bedroom…and the bathroom…and the living room and kitchen, and once the stairwell. I hadn’t been able to look Mrs Hudson in the eye for several days following that incident. There was cuddling on the couch, kisses in the morning and small touches for no reason at all. I am pleased to discover that after a really good shag Sherlock’s appetite will increase, unfortunately though, kicking in a few hours afterwards. This often means the lazy git waking me up at three in the morning asking me to cook eggs, which then results in me telling him to bugger off which further results in him teasing my cock until I cave in, but that is fine because Sherlock always follows through with his promises and eggs don’t take that long to cook anyway. There are cases, and if they aren’t too taxing there are quick hand jobs or blow jobs to tide us over. If the case is more involved then the sex at the end is hot and messy and wild and leaves us both exhausted. Sherlock follows me to bed most nights and on nights I fall asleep without him I always wake up with him wrapped around my body. Every morning. It is my favourite part of the day and it is wonderful.

But despite it being almost a month our relationship only exists inside 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson knows but that is only because we have had some rather loud sex over the past month, and that one time in the stairwell.

I keep telling myself that Sherlock will be more open about it any day now but the hand holding only lasts as far as the front door. Whenever we sit near each other in a taxi he scoots away just before we reach our destination. He never says anything whenever someone tries to set me up with one of their friends, despite me being able to decline the offers on my own. No marks from our lovemaking are left in visible areas and if we are cuddling on the couch Sherlock pulls away abruptly, sometimes completely moving away from the couch if he hears anyone entering the building.

So far the excuse that _it is new_ has helped keep my mind at ease but every night I spend in Sherlock’s bed that thought becomes less and less comforting and the thought that this is not as permanent as I had assumed gets stronger and stronger.

I sometimes can’t help but think that this is a passing faze for Sherlock. I keep thinking that one day I will no longer be welcome in his bed. After all, Sherlock doesn’t do relationships and I am nothing special. What if I have read the entire situation wrong. Sherlock had admitted as much that he doesn’t do, or at least hasn’t done, long term relationships. What if he only ever wanted something that was a couple of months long, and the reason for not telling people was to make things easier when they were no longer together.

I push these thought aside. Sherlock, on that first night, had told me that he loved me. Surely that is not something that he just throws out there because he wants someone to shag for a few months.

Surely not.


	5. On False Assumptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case and a bout of brotherly interference push the boys to discuss their new relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter borrows a little bit from ASiB, not much, but it helps our boys get over their first major hurdle as a couple.

~~~~~~~~~~

It does surprise me how often Sherlock can surprise me and in how many surprisingly different ways. Today he has actually managed to surprise me so much that I am actually incapable of voiding. Now, I have never been one of those guys that gets performance anxiety in public toilets, I have never had any qualms in using communal latrines, and I have never, ever, in my life been unable to pee on tap. Especially, alone, in my own bathroom. Until now.

Right now, at 6:43 in the morning, I am currently staring down into the toilet in our bathroom and there is a blue eye staring back up at me. I have tried to convince myself that I am actually still asleep and this is some weird abstract, lucid dream and any second now my penis, held limply in my hand, ready for its morning ablutions, is going to start singing ‘ _what a wonderful world_ ’. I should probably be more worried about the fact that I am currently wondering if my singing penis would sound like me or if it would sound like Louis Armstrong, but at the moment that is a perfectly plausible thought.

But no. This is not a dream and I can tell by the smell of burning plastic coming from the kitchen.

“Sherlock” I call. Nothing. No response. “Sherlock” I call again, just a bit louder this time. I would go to the kitchen and yell at him, but the blue eye ball, slowly rocking back and forth on the bottom of the toilet bowl, is actually quite hypnotising. Finally Sherlock appears in the bathroom door way, and I manage to tear my eyes away from the solitary globular organ looking up at me through the clear toilet water, to stare at my slightly mad significant other wearing goggles that make his eyes look too large and a surgical mask muffling his words, which I think are meant to be, “What now, John. I’m in the middle of something.”

I frown back down at the eye and ask, “Why is there an eyeball in the toilet?”

Sherlock pushes the goggles up onto his head, giving his appearance more of a crazed scientist, and pulls down the mask, a slight confused look on his face, for a brief second, and then something clicks, “Oh, just seeing what body parts are able to be disposed of via the average domestic plumbing system” he replies simply, as if explaining how one might take their morning coffee.

I frown harder at the eyeball. It looks depressed, all alone on the bottom of the bowl, nowhere to go and then the full impact of what Sherlock just said hits me. “Sherlock” I ask running my penis free hand over my closed eyes, trying to keep the frustration at bay. “How many body parts have you flushed down our toilet?” I ask, finally looking back to him.

Sherlock looks like he is trying to contemplate something and I know damn well that it is not the number of tissue, organ or bone samples that have made their way from 221B Baker Street and into London’s sewerage system. Finally he answers with, “Do you really want to know the answer to that question, John?” and I find myself thinking that, no, I really don’t want to know the answer to that question at all.

“Well, could you maybe do something with…” My free hand flounders in an indicating gesture towards the toilet bowl “…that, please.”

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry John, it will flush eventually. The last one did.” I really do try to not let the sigh escape my mouth, but it really is too early for this shit. “Sherlock” I say in my most forced calm voice, “I can’t pee with an eye staring up at me.”

At this Sherlock frowns. “Why on earth not, John? It’s not like it can actually see you, and even if it could, it’s not like you have trouble urinating with other people around. I frequently walk in while you use the toilet.”

“Yeah, I know, and I really wish you wouldn’t, but that’s not the point” I say looking back down at the blue iris and I notice that it looks a bit cloudy. I start to diagnose the fact that this person was developing cataracts when I realise that that really isn’t the issue at hand. “The point, Sherlock, is that it is just weird. Creepy even. It’s just staring while I am trying to pee. It’s unnerving.”

Sherlock just shrugs. “Don’t look at it” is his answer and with that he turns and leaves, pulling his goggles back down and I am left, still with a full bladder, staring down at the pale blue eye gently rocking back and forth on the bottom of our toilet bowl and unable to expel the contents of my bladder.

I give up on trying to pee and decide to have a shower instead. Before I run the shower I close the toilet lid and flush, hoping that the eyeball will be gone by the time I have finished in the shower. I don’t have time to stand around waiting to stop being stared at while I urinate . I have a plane to Dublin to catch, much to Sherlocks abject disapproval.

~o~

I wince as Mycroft steps on Sherlock’s sheet, but thankfully Sherlock catches it just in time. There are a couple of particular marks on his left arse cheek, left over from the other night’s - _please don’t go to Dublin John_  - ploy, and I know those particular ones wouldn’t have faded just yet. I would prefer it if they weren’t displayed to the rest of the room’s occupants.

Thankfully Sherlock eventually puts some pants on and Mycroft finally gets to the reason as to why he dragged us both to Buckingham Palace.

“Sex doesn’t alarm me” Sherlock tells his brother steadily, with a slight glare. Nope. Definitely not. I can definitely testify to that, thank you very much.

“How would you know?” Is Mycrofts swift reply. I have to struggle not to choke on the inhaled air. Surely not. How could he possibly _not_ know that his brother was a right fucking slut in uni and for the past month or so I have been worshipping his cock on an almost nightly basis?

There was silence, and the glare between the two confirm that, yes, Mycroft Holmes believes his brother to be a blushing virgin.

It took a fierce concentration on the names of all the bones in the foot, _not_ to let the smirk show, let alone stop the bark of laughter that wanted to break free at the fact that all this time Sherlock has been able to keep something from his know-all brother. But then it occurs to me. Sherlock isn’t denying it. Just another person he doesn’t want knowing. This is becoming a problem. It is not that I want to make a formal public announcement, but he can’t even tell his own fucking brother about us.

On the lighter side, at least I know there is no surveillance gear in the flat.

~o~

As I push into Sherlock a heady groan leaves my throat. God, this was just what I had needed, not that I was aware of this fact until an almost naked Sherlock had attacked me as soon as I entered the flat.

“John” he had growled into my ear, “I need you. Now!” And he had rolled his hips against mine, his obvious arousal grinding into my iliac crest.

Without any further persuasion I slid my jacket off and started unbuttoning my shirt as I headed to the bedroom.

“No” Sherlock said, tugging on my arm. “In here, on the couch” and he pulled me towards said couch with one hand as his other hand dipped into the pocket of his dressing gown, quite possibly the only thing he was wearing, and pulled out a bottle of lube.

“Just let me shut the door” I tell him, trying to pull away, but he just tugs on my arm harder.

“Mrs Hudson has gone out and won’t be back for at least another two hours” he informs me impatiently as he practically drags me to the couch and that is all the encouragement I need.

It isn’t long before the top half of me is naked and I am kicking off my shoes. Once Sherlock has stripped himself of his dressing gown (and yes, he was naked underneath it) and kneels on the couch, his hands resting on the back, I shed the bottom half of my clothes even faster, especially as it is made quite evident that he is well and truly ready if the rubber base of the blue anal plug nestled between his arse cheeks is anything to go by.

“Hurry John. I need you, now. I’ve been ready for hours” the taller man whines whilst undulating his hips slowly and I waste no times grabbing the lube out of his outstretched hand and using it to cover my own rather erect cock.

Sherlock lets out a rough groan as I slipped the plug out of him which morphs into deep moan as I push into him, which elicits my own moan. That and the feeling of being encased by such a tight, slick warmth.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock” I groan as I thrust, just once. The body under mine shivers and pushes back.

“John…” he pleads. I don’t know what got Sherlock worked up today, nor do I care. If I can get a welcome like this every time I get home, I am doing extended shifts more often. “…more!”

I snap my hips once more slowly, revelling in the feeling of just feeling Sherlock under me, breathing hard, body quivering with need, and then I start thrusting in and out building up speed and pushing into him faster.

Sherlock moans wantonly, chanting my name over and over, gradually getting louder and I bring one hand up to his chest, pinching and squeezing his nipple, while my other hand goes down to grip his cock, stroking it in time with my thrusts. I don’t think I am going to last long and I want him to come before me, so I start working my fingers over the head of his cock on every up stroke.

I freeze when I hear a small cough and turn my head to find Mycroft Holmes standing in the door, one hand gripping his umbrella while his eyes study the nails on his other hand. “Jesus…Mycroft…Don’t you ever…” I go to pull out of Sherlock but strong hands reach around to grasp my arse, holding me firmly in place.

“Mycroft, we are busy” Sherlock announces sounding irritated.

“Hmmm…so it seems, but I am sorry, this can’t wait.”

“Well it’s going to have to and you can either wait downstairs or wait there, it’s up to you. John, continue.”

“What!” My head whips back from Mycroft around to the back of Sherlock’s head. I don’t know whether to be furious or humiliated, nor at who.

“Continue. Carry on. Don’t stop. _Keep going_.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so” and I pull Sherlock’s painful grasp off of my arse and pull out with a wince. Then with as much dignity as I can muster I stand up and walk to our room, erection rapidly wilting, past Mycroft who is looking up at the ceiling with an irritated look on his face. The gall…he waltzed into our place unannounced and uninvited. Pompous git.

While I dress, slowly, I hear voices, but I can’t make out any words. By the time I am fully dressed, underwear, tee-shirt, shirt,jumper, belt, shoes, socks (I even considered a tie) I decide that I am most definitely fuming and at both of the Holmes brothers.

I stalk out to the living room which is now bereft of one Mycroft Holmes but containing a still naked Sherlock whom is currently lazing on the sofa.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Mycroft, obviously.”

“Not him. You know what I mean.”

The only answer I get is a cock of the eyebrow and that adds irritation to my fury.

“ _Continue_ ” I mimic in a posh voice.

“John, if that was supposed to be an imitation of me, it was terrible, and if Mycroft cannot be bothered to knock or have the decency to wait until we have finished then that is his fault.”

“Since when have you ever known your brother to wait until it suits someone else?”

The silence and the barest of grins speaks volumes as realisation washes over me.

“Oh my god. You knew.” I feel colour draining from my face.

“Knew what?”

“That he was coming up the stairs.”

“So what if I did.” He says bored, looking up at the ceiling.

“In fact, I would wager that you knew he was on his way over. You set this whole damn thing up so he would walk in on us. The jumping on me as I walked through the door, the preparation…it was all staged. I should have known something was off. Weeks of being careful and then…” then it all falls into place. “This is about what he said at Buckingham Palace.” He continues to stare up at the ceiling. “You just had to show off. I saw your face when he said that and it annoyed you.”

He finally looked at me and the look on his face told me that I was right.

“Fucking hell Sherlock. Did you think, at all, how that would make me feel?”

“I can assure you John, you have nothing to worry about. Your performance was…”

“NOT THE POINT!” I yell. “I really don’t mind that you wanted him to know. He is a condescending prick who needs to be proven wrong every now and then, but this was not on, Sherlock.”

“I am sorry” Sherlock tells me flatly, not sounding sorry at all. “Now that we have had the talk can we get back to finishing what we started?”

That was it. That was the final straw. Consider the camel’s back finally fucking broken. “You know what, Sherlock, finish yourself off” and with that I grab my jacket and storm out of the flat, down the stairs and out onto Baker Street.

God, I have never been so angry, furious, _fucking seething_. Weeks of hiding everything and then a ridiculous show all for the benefit of someone else.

I continue along Baker Street, head down against the evening chill and walk, not caring where I end up, so long as it is as far away from 221B as possible. If I see a fucking Holmes before the day is over it will be too fucking soon.

I walk for close to half an hour, nearing Hyde Park as my phone beeps out a text message. I know who it is before I even pull the phone out of my pocket.

**John, you are being ridiculous. I apologised. Come home SH**

I sigh as I put my phone back in my pocket, all the anger seeping out of me. Now I just feel tired. Not for the first time I wonder why Sherlock wanted to be in a relationship with me in the first place. To start off with I was happy to keep it to ourselves, but now for it to be flaunted like that, not because Sherlock is proud to be in a relationship with me, but to prove his bloody brother wrong. That’s all it was. Maybe that’s al I am. A point to prove.

I keep walking, still not sure where I am headed, and still not caring. My phone rings. I ignore it. I walk past the Natural History Museum, all locked up for the night. I haven’t been there since high school. In fact, the only museum I have been in since uni was the National Antiquities museum where me and Sherlock had chased a Chinese drug smuggling acrobat. Back before we became….whatever we are now. I ignore my phone ringing again as I walk past the locked museum. Just over an hour after leaving the flat I make it to the Thames and go sit on the banks watching various bits of debris float past. It is probably not the smartest place to be after dark but I really don’t care. I don’t want to be around people at the moment and I think it is pretty safe to say that Sherlock won’t look for me here.

I sit on the shore of the Thames for two hours listening to London living around me. Cars and buses, party goers, lovers talking, lovers arguing, children laughing. People carrying on. Every now and then a small boat putters past and on one occasion someone glides past on a kayak but not one single person approaches me and that suits me fine. I turned my phone off after the fourth unread text message. I don’t want to talk to Sherlock. I don’t want Sherlock to find me. I just want to sit here, alone and be thankful that it is not raining tonight. But two hours of undisturbed peace, in my life, is usually too much to ask for and it is taken away when a familiar form slumps down next to me.

“This isn’t one of your usual haunts” he says in a smooth, deep baritone.

“And doesn’t that tell you something?” I refuse to look at him so I focus on the traffic I can see across the river instead.

“You didn’t answer my messages.”

“I didn’t read your messages” I respond flatly. I really want him to leave but I just don’t have it in me to argue.

“John, I…”

“Don’t, Sherlock. I really don’t want one of your prepared apologies because you think that it is what I want to hear. I’m really not interested.”

There is sweet silence again, but as usual when Sherlock Holmes is around, it doesn’t last.

“I’m sorry, John. What I did was completely unacceptable, and you are right. I didn’t think about how you would feel at all. It’s just…despite his worrying over me and his borderline obsessive streak”, I swallow the snort at that comment…that streak goes way over borderline. “Mycroft has always assumed that I am untouchable, that no one would want to be with me long enough to want to be in a relationship with me. I just, I don’t know, wanted to show him that he was wrong.”

My head drops and I look at my hands hanging between my parted knees. “Why didn’t you say something? Anything? We could have worked this out together, hell, I would have snogged you on the couch, right there at bloody Buckingham Palace, if you weren’t so hell bent on keeping our relationship strictly between us.”

“Me?” Sherlock sounds confused now. “I thought you wanted it kept quiet. I assumed you weren’t ready to be completely _out of the closet_ yet.”

We sit staring at each other for a few seconds, studying each other. “But you made sure you covered up your neck that next day, while we were on the case. You kept tightening your scarf. I assumed you didn’t want people to see the marks, which is why I have never left any others since that first night.”

“I wasn’t sure where we were at publicly, and you didn’t say anything, you even stayed the normal 26cm apart from me when we walked, I assumed…”

He stops talking as I start chuckling.

“What?”

“You, me…us” I laugh. “Jesus, all this time and we have been hiding our relationship on false assumptions.” My laughter turns into a groan as I run my hand over my face. Fuck I am tired. I look up to see Sherlock looking out over the water.

“So you would be amiable in going public then?”

A weary grin steals over my face. “Well, I don’t want to take an ad out in the paper or anything, but yeah, I am happy for us to display our relationship outside of the flat.”

We sit in silence a bit longer and watch the river before us, listening to the sounds of London. Again it is Sherlock who breaks the silence.

“Can we go home now? It’s actually quite cold out, and we can sit and brood just as well in the flat.”

I stand up and brush the dirt off of my pants, regretting sitting there so long as now the seat of my pants are damp.

"It's not Hudson, is it?" Sherlock asks looking up at me.

It takes a few seconds for me to realise what he is on about and involuntarily a small huff of laughter escapes.

"No, it isn't" I tell him asI hold a hand out to Sherlock and pull him up off of the damp ground.  Together we head off back towards the road, still holding hands.


	6. If Forever Could Be Longer, Then That Might Be Enough Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A comment from Sherlock on marriage, following a case leaves John even more determined to make their relationship work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my little lovelies, and huge apologies for taking so long in getting this chapter to you all, but it was being stubborn. I managed to get a few of the later chapters written, but this one just wouldn't write, but here it is, eventually and finally. 
> 
> I hope you all had a lovely Christmas and all the best for the upcoming New Year!!

~~~~~~~~~~

“Why am I here?” Sherlock asks, looking around the pub, sneering at a group of uni students who are well and truly on their way to becoming drunk and disorderly.  

I just shrug as I finish the last of my beer.  “I’m still trying to figure that out myself” I tell him. 

When I had told Sherlock that I was heading out to meet Greg for a drink tonight he had stood up and put his coat on telling me to hurry up or we would be late.

"Howard?" he asked as we made our way down the stairs.  I had just laughed and he had dropped the subject.

Greg had been speechless when we had walked through the door together, and not just because I was lightly clasping Sherlocks hand.  He had found out about us a week earlier, and thanked me, because this meant that he had won the betting pool, and it was a rather impressive amount.  No, the reason the DI was speechless was because Sherlock was here, and there was no reason for him to be so.  No murder, no stakeout, no threats from his brother.  He was just here.

I had directed Sherlock off to the table where Greg was sitting and went and ordered the first round.  When I had got to the table, drinks in hand, both men were sitting unnaturally, not saying anything, Sherlock glaring at anything that wan’t Greg and Greg just staring, curiously, at Sherlock.  As I sat down Greg had sent a questioning look my way and all I could do was shrug in response.  So, our first drinks had gone down while me and Greg tried to chat aimlessly, as Sherlock looked painfully bored.

Now Greg was getting the second lot of drinks and Sherlock was questioning his presence at the pub, and possibly his sanity.  I certainly knew that that was what I was questioning.

“I just thought that that was what people did.  Went out together, you know with their boyf…”

“God, stop right there” I groan.  “No…you can call us anything you want just not….I’m not fifteen anymore.  Find another label.” 

I can’t be certain but I am sure Sherlock muttered “Thank christ” into his cup as he finished the last of his beer with a grimace.  

“And I don’t expect you to become all couple-y” I tell him, placing my hand over his on the table.  “Just be you, yeah?” I tell him and I can see him visibly relax at my words.

“You want to go home, don’t you” I say.  It is not a question, it is a statement.

With a nod, Sherlock turns his hand under mine and links his fingers through mine.  “I’ll see you back at the flat” he tells me, not expecting me to leave with him, and for that I am grateful.  As much as I love spending time with Sherlock, I also like having my own time and I nod up at him as he stands up, just as Greg comes back to the table with three more beers.

“Not staying, then?” Greg asks as Sherlock swings his jacket on, confused but somehow amused at the same time.

“I see your impressive detective skills are kicking in once, again” Sherlock comments, but it lacks it usual sneer.  “Feel free to call me when you have something decent” he tells Greg and then, turning to me, “I will see you later” and with a card of his fingers through my hair he leaves the pub, his coat flaring up behind him as he does so.

“So, things still good then?” Greg asks, sitting back in his chair and taking a drink.

I nod.  “Perfect” I tell him.  I am sure he doesn’t want details.  “What about you?” I ask in place of elaborating on something neither of us want to discuss.

The look on Gregs face shows that the answer to that question is probably something else we don’t want to discuss.

“I heard the Library on Duke is being converted into another pub” I tell him, to save him answering questions about his failing marriage.  Sometimes I wish I could be as abrupt as Sherlock and just tell him to break it off and leave it broken off.  Kylie wasn’t worth it.  He could do better than her, but John had known the man for less than a year.  Telling him to finally end a twelve year marriage really wasn’t his place.

“Good” was Greg’s reply.  “Maybe then all the young one’s will leave this place and they might actually start playing good music again.” And his face scrunches up as the current song turns into a cacophony of disjointed electronic chords and at least four out of the ten most annoying sounds in the world.

An agreeing look takes over my face.  He has a good point.  Fat Boy Slim doesn’t do it for me either.

Three more beers later and the pub has quietened down somewhat.  I am about to tell Greg that I need to go after this one, as I really do have a shift in the morning when suddenly he blurts out.

“He’s a lot better since you came along.”

I raise a questioning eyebrow at him as I gently swirl the liquid contents in my half full glass.

“Sherlock” he clarifies.  “He’s more manageable.  Not as nasty” I nod in understanding.  I had never seen the Sherlock before me, obviously, but I had heard stories.  

“And I haven’t had to threaten to call his brother once since you started…you know”  his hand sort of gestures something towards me, but I get what he is trying to say.  “Even when you’re not there.”

And out of all of that only one thing really stays stuck in my head.  “You have Mycroft’s number?” 

Greg stares at me for a whole of two seconds before answering.  “Well, yeah.  He makes sure everyone Sherlock has contact with has his number, doesn’t he?”

“Good point” I concede and we go back to drinking our beer in silence.

~o~

I quickly pull the shirt out of the wardrobe and yank it off of the coat hanger.  I have exactly twelve minutes to get to work seeing as Sherlock forgot to tell me that he had disabled the alarm on my phone.  He had not given a reason as to why this had happened, only that he had and then he rolled back over, pulling the covers over his head and pretended to go back to sleep.  (Drinking six beers, the last one being close to eleven o’clock last night, probably hadn’t helped matters either.)

My fingers move to the buttons on the front of my shirt and instantly feel that something is wrong.  For a starters, the buttons have been sewn onto the wrong side of the shirt, over the button holes.  Secondly, the strip of material running down the centre of the shirt, under the buttons is abnormally thick and stiff.

I grip the V at the top of the collar of the shirt and pull, a loud ripping noise sounding as the velcro, which is now holding my shirt closed, pulls apart.

With a deep, steady breath I tell myself that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why one of my favourite shirts now has velcro instead of buttons and pull out another one.  It too has velcro.

“Sherlock” I say, loud enough so that he can hear over his fake sleepy breathing and drop the second shirt to the floor, pulling out a third one.  Velcro.  As is the fourth and fifth.

“Have you actually replaced the buttons on _all_ of my shirts with velcro, and don’t pretend you are asleep, I know you’re not.”

The apparent idiot I am going out with pushes the quilt from over his face and answers with a sleepy, affirmative hum.

I pull the sixth velcroed shirt out of the closet and hold it up to him, resigning myself to the fact that, a) all of my shirts no longer button up, and b) no matter what, I am going to be ridiculously late for work.  “Why did you replace all of the buttons on my shirts with velcro?”

“It is easier to undress you this way, and technically I didn’t do it.  Rosie did.”

“And who is Rosie?”  I ask and instantly register that that really shouldn’t have been the most pressing question here.

“She used to be a seamstress, but due to various circumstances has found herself living on the streets.  Her skill is remarkable.  It’s such a shame to see it go to waste.  I have been trying to find her employment, but so far, no luck.”

“Fantastic.  So a tramp has been handling my clothes.  That’s, really…fantastic.” Sherlock just shrugs as I, again, remember that this is not the real problem.

I move to the cupboard and yank open the drawer that houses my jumpers, pulling out the neatest one I own, puling it down over my tee-shirt.  I look at my watch.  I am meant to be at work right now.  

I quickly make my way into the bathroom, shave, brush my teeth and comb my hair before making my way back into the bedroom where Sherlock has pulled the blankets back over his head.

I yank the blankets down, exposing Sherlocks naked body to the cool air and an undignified yell leaves his mouth as he reaches, unsuccessfully, for the blankets I have now pulled over the bottom of the bed.

“Before I get home could you please get Rosie back to remove the velcro and put the buttons back where they belong, on all of my shirts, as well as anything else you felt the need to alter.  And then wash them all and iron them and hang them back up.”

Sherlock just glares at me.  Defiant and stubborn as always.  But that is okay, because I now have a card to play in situations such as these.

“No sex for a week if you don’t.”  And with that I turn and leave the room, the sound of grumbling coming from the room as I head down the stairs, firing off a text to Sarah, telling her that I will be there in twenty minutes.

Since Sherlock has reawakened his sexual side again it is almost impossible to put it back to sleep, even temporarily, especially since we are no longer keeping our relationship to ourselves, and as much as a week without sex would be hard for myself, for the detective it would be damn near impossible, especially if there is no work.

I raise my hand to hail a taxi and on the third attempt one pulls over.  As it turns out, I am forty-five minutes late for work.

~o~

 _Oh, god. Oh…ffffuuuuuck_.  This is so good.  How is this so good?  No, I’m a doctor, I know why this is so god, what I don’t understand is how I have never done this before, _Oh, jesus christ_.  The man is a God.  That’s what he is. A fucking God with his tongue currently up my arse and _oh, yes that, right there_ … what is he even doing?  I want to vocalise all of this but all that comes out of my mouth when it opens is tiny whimpers.  Unarticulated pleas for more, more, MORE.  

Once upon a time I would have discouraged rimming, what with the risk of transmitting things such as E Coli, Shigellosis and the lovely range of intestinal parasites but god, not any more, not now that I know that , _oh god, just that, right there_ , can be done.  Now I am going to recommend it to anyone that walks through the clinic door, for any ailment. 

But right now I just need Sherlock to keep doing that.

I bury my face in the mattress between my elbows, trying desperately to muffle the quite frankly embarrassing noises that are leaving my mouth but Sherlock seems to have other plans.  

Abruptly he pulls his mouth away from my arse and a sob leaves my chest as I thrust back, desperate for more.

“I want to hear you, John.  I want to savour every one of those little noises you make, hear every cry and whimper.  Every gasp.”

I groan in response but I know Sherlock.  He won’t start again until he gets what he wants, so I turn my head to the side and whisper out a shaky, “please.”

Immediately Sherlock returns to his earlier ministrations and licks a stripe from my perineum all the way up to the top of my cleft before using his hands to spread me wide again.

This should be humiliating, this position of such vulnerability, but all I can think of is him putting his tongue back on me, and he does.  The tip of it circles my entrance, slowly getting closer and closer, then there it is.  Just the tip pushing in and giving a little wiggle. An involuntary whimper leaves my mouth and I push back to get more.  Sherlocks hands push back and he growls, “Patience John” before getting back to work.  Sherlock gradually works his tongue in further and further, spreading me wider to get more access, untill he cannot push in any further. Despite the small amount of penetration, it feels like so much more.  His tongue flicks in and out and runs around my inner walls, his lips push around the ring, on occasion sucking which sends ripples of a completely different kind of pleasure through my body.  I can feel myself on the edge, my body tense and shaking from the assault from one small muscle but Sherlock had promised that if I tried to touch myself again he would stop all together.  

I can feel the sweat running down various parts of my body as Sherlock continues to poke and prod and lick and suck and on the odd occasion, bite.  A low, drawn out keening sound leaves my mouth as my shoulders drop down to the mattress, no longer able to support my weight and Sherlock finally shows some mercy.  One of his hands leaves my arse and slides down between my legs.  With one final acrobatic trick with his tongue he gives my balls a hard squeeze and suddenly all I can feel is my orgasm, wrecking my entire body as I come onto the sheets below me as Sherlock laps at my hole as it clenches and flutters around his tongue.   

Too wrung out to make any of my muscles work I drop the rest of my body to the mattress as Sherlock slowly crawls up my body kissing and licking his way up until he is completely covering me.  I can feel his erection pressing into the small of my back and I open my mouth to promise to fix that as soon as I have control over my body again, but all that comes out is heavy panting and a small grunt, but then he starts rutting up against my arse, his cock sliding in between my spit slicked cheeks.  I push my hips back, thrusting my arse into the air to give him better access.  A low groan emits from behind me and I feel his hands squeeze on either side of my arse as he creates a tighter channel for his cock to slide through.  The feeling is amazing.  I didn’t actually think I would feel anything pleasurable from this, but every time he thrusts he sends little ripples of pleasure through my nervous system and I can’t stop the “ _uughn_ ” every time he thrusts forward or the whimper every time the tip of his cock catches on my rim.

With a low throaty growl he pushes forward with extra force and I feel a warm splash along my lower back, dragging down between my arse crack as he withdraws, only to push forward again as another ribbon of come spits out onto my body.  His grip has tightened to painful on my cheeks but I couldn’t care less.  All I can really focus on is the after effects of everything he just did to me.  

As gracefully as a dying giraffe, Sherlock flops down next to me, his arm coming across the middle of my back pulling me into him.  

“Is that your way of apologising for my shirts?” I ask him sluggishly.  I am pretty sure I should have more feeling in my legs.

A disgruntled huff leaves the man curled over me.  “It was a perfectly sensible idea” he grumbled, even though, yes, he had brought Rosie back into revert all of my clothes back to normal.  “But no.  That was because, you, John Watson, make me hornier than I ever was as a teenager.”

I can’t help but feel smug at this and he must be able to feel the grin that has spread across my face.  “I really don’t think that is something to be proud of.”

“It really is” I correct him, my grin growing wider.  He just humms, thoughtfully.

“I just feel, sometimes,” he says after a few moments silence, “that I will never get enough of you.  That there won’t be enough time to have all of John Watson.”

At this I turn so I am facing him and pull him closer, burying my face in the crook of his neck.  “There will always be time” I tell him, because we have the rest of our lives and with any luck that will be many, many more years to come.

~o~

Gina Ribosi tucks her arm around her granddaughters heaving shoulders and with a nod of thanks in our direction leads the now, quietly sobbing girl down the stairs and out of 221 Baker Street.

She had been right in thinking her grandson-in-law had been cheating.  Unfortunately having the pieces laid out in front of her by one consulting detective was the only was to get her precious Emma to open her eyes to her husbands philandering ways.

I would have been surprised that Sherlock had taken on such a domestic case, but I had seen how determined and unrelenting Mrs Ribosi was, not taking any of Sherlocks insults, nor putting up with his rather rude attitude.  I had come home from a Tesco trip two days ago to find the woman sitting stubbornly on the couch, ignoring Sherlocks glares, since his acerbic tongue had no effect on the woman, and even Sherlock was not above physically manhandling a woman in her eighties down seventeen stairs, despite how strong she looked.

Once I had arrived she had turned to me with the sweetest smile and laid her case out once again, Sherlock interjecting with “ _Dull_ ”, “ _Boring_ ” and _“Complete and utter waste of not only my time but also my intellect.  John, make her leave.”_   But as it turns out the feisty old woman out-stubborned Sherlock Holmes.  I honestly thought that I would never see the day, but in the end, the only way to make her leave was to agree to take her case which was twenty four hours of following Mitchell Jacobson around and taking photos and hacking into his Facebook and email account.  

It was exactly what Sherlock had said it would be.  Dull and boring, but we got what we needed and now Emma was forcefully aware of her husbands true nature.  Not only was he cheating on her with his accountant, but also with Emma’s own cousin.  (Someone had just written themselves out of their grandmothers will.)

There had been shouting and then wailing and then sobbing all on the younger womans behalf which even I found uncomfortable.  Sherlock was just outright annoyed, but no form of protestation or demands to leave was making that old lady move her grand daughter from their couch until her grand daughter was ready.  

That didn’t happen until after 25 minutes of vocalised grieving.  Now they are thankfully gone.

“I don’t understand marriage?” Sherlocks voice cut through the silence that had surrounded us as the sobbing woman was taken away by her grandmother.  “I mean,  why go through all of that bother when the relationship is only going to eventually fall apart anyway?  Nearly 45% of marriages, in the UK alone will end in divorce.  That leaves the other 55% to live unhappily or blind to cheating.  Then there are the ones who just separate without going through all the legal rigmarole that comes with divorce and not to mention the amount that end in murder.”

I push back the unspoken words that are weaved into that speech.  The ones that dictate that our relationship is already doomed to fail, at least in Sherlocks eyes.  As far as he is apparently concerned relationships don’t last forever.  Sooner or later we would be over.

I stand and secretly wallow in my self pity over this thought for approximately ten seconds and then my resolve grows a set of balls and mans the fuck up.  I am not going to let this relationship fail.  Me and Sherlock is the best thing to happen to me in my 39 years of life and I am going to make sure it stays as us being together for the rest of our many years still left to live, and damned if I’n not going to show Sherlock that I am never letting him go.  I am going to show him that we are forever, and if that could be longer then only then could it be enough time.

The tricky part now is to find a way to do just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John’s comment on Fat Boy Slim (as minor as it was) was inspired by Dylan Morans very accurate discription on Funk Soul Brother in his stand up show, “Monster” - yeah, I don’t get the song either!!
> 
> You can see the Moran clip here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=908pTL8tp8Q - it does make me laugh.
> 
> And You can check out the song, Funk Soul Brother by Fatboy Slim, here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SBClImpnfAg or not….Realy, or not!!


	7. It Is As Simple As That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An influx of people hitting on John leaves him feeling confused, a bit chuffed and then very muchly suspicious.

~~~~~~~~~~

I have to marry Sherlock Holmes.  It is as simple as that.  It is honestly the only way that that insufferable wanker of a partner of mine is ever going to see that I. Am. Not. Leaving him.  It is the only solution, and one that, not surprisingly, leaves me feeling rather content.  Not in a ’ _it’ll do_ ’ kind of way, but more of a ‘ _life is good_ ’ kind of way.

How have I come to this conclusion?  

It started three weeks ago, eight days after the Ribosi case.

~o~

 “Don’t you see?” Sherlock asks, trying not to sound exasperated.

The blank look that had made a home my face ten minutes ago didn’t shift.  With his trademark eye roll and sigh combo Sherlock goes into a rather complex diatribe on celery,  shoe polish and the distinct short bristly hairs of the wire-haired dachshund.

“So obviously,” he drawls, coming to his conclusion, “it cannot have been the gardener, so was therefore it has to be the secretary.”

I try and wrap my head around his quick-fire reasoning and as usual it takes a bit of time and a stretch of the imagination for it to actually make sense.  By the time that I have caught up I am also suddenly aware that there is not the shortened stride of someone with absurdly long legs trying to keep pace with someone with shorter legs next to me.  When I stop and look behind me I find that Sherlock is no longer next to me, but making his way towards a small coffee shop.  Doing an about turn I quickly follow him into the shop.

“Are we meeting a witness?” I ask as the door closes behind me.

“No.  You need sustenance” is the reply that I get.

I stop and replay the words over my head.  Sherlock never offers to stop for food, but he is right.  I haven’t eaten in the past six hours and the coffee I had two hours ago as a quick pick me up had run its course a while back now.

“Just a tea and one of those raspberry muffins for me” Sherlock says, pointing to the display case next to the till, before striding off to a small booth at the back of the shop.

I would be pissed that he has left me to pay, again, in what is clearly an overpriced cafe’ but I am still stuck on the fact that, not only did he voluntarily stop for me to eat but he too has expressed the want for food as well.

It was because I was so caught up in Sherlocks behaviour that I didn’t notice that the woman behind the counter was flirting with me until she drew attention to her number, scrawled on the receipt that she made sure to push into my hand with purpose.  After frowning at it for a few seconds, trying to figure out what I am seeing (and that is saying a lot about my current mental state, right there), I throw her a friendly smile and say “sorry.  Already taken” and I nod my head towards Sherlock who is currently sitting with his face buried in his phone checking up on some obscure fact or other, completely oblivious to what is going on at the front of the store.

“Pity” she says with a mock pout and turns to serve the next customer.  And just like that, things have gone back to the normal un-normal that generally follows Sherlock wherever he goes.

~o~

The hand on my cheek was unexpected.  And unwanted.  Taking a step back I hold my hands up in a way that says back off, but calmly, the plexor still clutched in my left hand.

“I’m sorry” the man, my patient, stutters.  “I thought….well, you were so nice, and you laughed with me just before and I….well, you seem like a nice guy.”

I swallow and slowly shake my head.  This is not what normally happens when giving someone a physical.  “I think, maybe Dr Wilford would be better suited to being your physician.” and with that I turn and leave the room to find my colleague.  

Gene lets out a hearty laugh as he slaps his knee once I explain my predicament.  

“I’m glad you find it so amusing” I say, but I can’t help but chuckle along.  “He’s waiting in my room, if you would please be so kind.”  

With another chuckle Doctor Gene Wilford makes his way to my consulting room, only to come back less than a minute later.  “No one there” he tells me with a shrug.  

With a confused frown I head out to the front desk.  “Did Mr Jacobs just come through here?” I ask Jane, disrupting her from whatever email she is looking at.

“You mean that dishy thing with the curls?” she asks with a wide smile that I have found mildly annoying since I first started working at the clinic.  I shrug.  He might have had curls, I don’t know.  I was too busy taking his blood pressure and looking in his ears to focus too much on his hair.

“If many more of your patients come out with a grin like his, I might have to make an appointment to see you myself” she grins at me.  It is after the wink that she directs at me that I turn and head back to my office wondering what the fuck just happened.

~o~

“And what, in your medical opinion, would cause such skin colouration?” Sherlock asks, flicking through photos on his phone that he should most definitely not have taken while he was at the crime scene, but if the dozen or so coppers that were usually milling about hadn’t bothered to keep an eye on him then that was their problem, not mine.

“Judging by the photos that you took” and I throw a pointed glare at him which he chooses to ignore “I would say Purpura.”

“Elaborate” Sherlock commands in that way that indicates he needs to know more.  I like that tone.  It means that I know something, _worth knowing_ , that he does not.

“Caused by bleeding under the skin that is usually a symptom of Vasculitis or attributed to poor nutrition, lacking in Vitamin C.”

At this Sherlock looks up at me with wide eyes and an even wider smile.  “You, Doctor Watson, are a marvel.  Remind me thank you once we get home” and with that he looks back down at his phone and starts tapping out a message, probably to Greg.

Once the cab pulls up at 221B Baker Street Sherlock is out of the car and unlocking the door before I have even pulled my wallet out of my back pocket.  I pass the cash through the window to the cab driver who doesn’t take it.  

“This one is on me _Doctor Watson_ ” She says with a filthy smirk.  “Hope to see you around” and with that she drives away.

I stand on the kerb looking after the cab, even though it is already lost to the London traffic.  What in the fuck is going on with people and public transport lately.  Just yesterday I was chatted up while on the tube to go see a friend in West Ham.  

I am pulled out of my thoughts by an impatient “Johhhhn” coming down the stairs and out the door, and I remember that I have a very horny detective waiting to thank me.

~o~

“Who are you?”

Sherlocks brash, forward line of questioning no longer leaves me cringing and apologising in its wake.  Now it just earns an eye roll and then me interjecting with the polite greeting.

“Evening” I say holding my hand out to the woman, apparently in charge of the crime scene.  

“DI Molloy” the woman replies, taking my hand and shaking it.  She then holds a hand out to Sherlock, who just looks at the proffered hand with a small sneer which is my cue to continue smoothing things over.

“John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.  Greg sent us a message…”

“Of course” the woman suddenly gushes, realising that we are the help.  “Lestrade told me that he” and with that her head indicates in Sherlocks direction.  Sherlock just sighs impatiently.  “would probably be able to wrap this one up.  Second one this week, and we still have no leads on the first one.  When Lestrade handed it over it was hopefully going to stay a single case of what appeared to be revenge killing, but….” and at that her hand gestures towards the body on the ground, split open from throat to navel, a scattering of small yellow flowers sprinkled over the large gash.

“Where is Lestrade?” Sherlock demands.  “I assumed he would be here due to the fact that he messaged me.”

“Holiday” Molloy replies simply and leaving it at that.

“Must be the week for it” I comment distantly, thinking that a holiday would be quite nice.  “Wasn’t Mycroft going away this week?” I ask, a vague memory of Sherlock telling him not to bother coming back in a hurry.

“Hmm? What?” Sherlock looks from the body before us with a confused look which quickly morphs into a frown.  “Who cares about Mycroft.  Tell me about him?” Sherlock points to the body, directing the question to Malloy.

“Hector Whitehall, 63 Janitor.  No….”

She stops talking as Sherlock gasps excitedly, bring his hands up under his chin, his mouth in that beautiful O shape that does things to my insides and I am surprised that he has formed a conclusion so quickly.  This must be a record.

“Want to share with the rest of the class, Sherlock?” I ask as his gaze pinpoints on me.

“Hector” he mutters in something barely above a whisper and the awe at his speedy deduction fades away.

“No, Sherlock” I groan.  “My middle name is not Hector.  Do you think we could maybe focus on the dead body.”

With a disgruntled huff Sherlock, in a swirl of coattails, turns away from me and squats down in front of the body to do his thing.

“Is he normally so….”

“Yes” I offer in place of Molloy’s floundering for an adequate, yet non-offensive, adjective.

“I’ve heard stories” She confesses with something akin to slight awe mixed with mild amusement.  “About him, I mean, from the others.”

I just nod, not saying anything, knowing exactly what those stories entailed and I brace myself for the oncoming theories involving _freak_ and _psychopath_.  Instead I am completely thrown off my axis by DI Malloy leaning in and with a low, hushed tone,  saying“But I can’t say I have had the pleasure of hearing too many stories about you.” 

My jaw does a sort of jumpy movement as I consider how, or if, I should answer that as I continue to watch Sherlock as he reaches underneath the body, checking for god knows what.  I decide that silence is best.

The silence continues as we watch Sherlock flounce about, verbally stripping back anyone who gets within eight inches of him.  I push Molloy’s previous comment away with all intentions of completely forgetting about it until I feel a slight pressure the left side of my chest.  I look down to see her sliding a business card into the breast pocket of my shirt.

“Maybe when this is over” she says, using that hushed tone again, flattening her hand over my pocket, “you’d like to catch up for a drink or something.” 

It was just at that moment that Sherlock decides to look up and I can actually feel the temperature drop about two or three degrees, and before I have a chance to decline Molloy’s offer Sherlock is striding towards us, his face like thunder.

“I’ll be by in the morning to pick up the report from the previous murder.  I expect a copy of the autopsy” comes Sherlocks voice, cold and acidic as he situated himself between Molloy and myself.  Although, at the moment I can only see the back of his head, I know exactly what look he was giving the DI, and it isn’t a friendly one.  “And maybe if you focused you attentions on the case, rather than on…other areas, you might actually be useful.”  

I soon find myself ushered away from the crime scene, one arm possessively wrapped around my waist, long fingers digging into my hip.

As Sherlock hails a cab I can’t help but wondering what the fuck is going on.  I’m not new to flirting, either being the flirter or being flirted at, but I am not exactly in my prime anymore and while every now and then it’s not unusual for me to attract the attention of some person or another this past couple of weeks have seen a rather alarming amount of interested parties.  From the girl in the coffee shop to random people on the streets or on the tube.  Somehow, in the past eight days I have become Mr Sex, and I can’t help but think that it has anything to do with my looks or charm.

~o~

It is two days later that everything finally, sort of, falls into place.  As we are listening to a client weave a rather complicated tale to conclude to a rather dull ending.   I seriously lost the plot in between the bit with the correlation between Saturn and karma and wondering why Sherlock hadn’t physically thrown this guy down the stairs.  It was as I was trying to pick up the thread of the conversation again when the man, Robert, stopped his story mid sentence and grinned at me, just for a second before carrying on.

I look to Sherlock, who is studying Robert as he tells his ridiculous story and showing no hint that the man in front of us just stopped to grin at me, so I too choose to ignore it, cashing it up my imagination after all of the other unusual attention I have been receiving these past few weeks.

Throughout his story Robert continues to glance in my direction, flashing a grin and at one time winking, even though the words are directed at Sherlock and I can no longer convince myself that the guy is not flirting with me.  I look to Sherlock again, who seems completely oblivious to the fact that someone else is vying for my attention and alarm bells start ringing.  Sherlock, who makes sure to place his hand on any part of me if he thinks there was a potential romantic threat near-by.  Sherlock who, periodically marks me to show the world that I am taken.  Sherlock, who became childishly jealous over Greg and me going out for a drink before we even started going out now he is sitting here and letting some random stranger come on to me.  

And that is when pieces started slotting into place.  The flirting over the past few weeks, always when Sherlock is around, except for that one case at the clinic which was all a bit odd in itself, the stupidly ridiculous story this guy was telling, all plot to keep Sherlocks attention only to end rather dully - allowing him to flirt with me in Sherlocks presence, but not enticing enough for Sherlock to follow through with.  Why?  Because there was no case.  It was a fucking set-up.

“So?” Robert asks, raising his eyebrow in a seductive manner, a hungry grin taking over his mouth, “Interested in taking me on?”

I look to Sherlock as he pretends to think through and just as he is about to open his mouth to answer I simply say “No.”

Sherlocks mouth flaps shut comically as his head snaps from Robert to me, a confused frown taking over Roberts brow.

“I’m sorry?” he asks at the same time Sherlock says “John?”

“I said no” I repeat.  “Sherlock will not be taking you on as a client, not that you really were one anyway, nor will I be taking you on as a…whatever it is Sherlock thinks I may be after with you.  The answer is no, so if you would please see yourself out I do believe Sherlock and myself have a conversation to carry out.”

My bored gaze at Robert had not faltered once during my speech, nor does it falter when he looks to Sherlock and then back at me, obviously at a loss as to what to do next.  Eventually he gets the point and stands up and leaves.

“John” Sherlock says, after a minutes silence of me not looking at the impossibly moronic idiot opposite me, in that tone he uses when he needs to calm me down, usually because he has pissed me off.  I ignore him.

“The girl at the coffee shop” I say, neutrally.

“I am sure I have….”

“The patient at the clinic” I continue, cutting off Sherlocks denial.

“It’s really not what you…”

“The cabbie.  That was an odd one. Should have realised something was off then.”

“If you would just….”

“And of course DI Malloy was a set up.  That right there should have sent warning bells, but then you were so possessive afterwards” I continue, not acknowledging that Sherlock was trying to explain.

“That really wasn’t…”

“I suppose all of the people on the streets and on the tube were members of your homeless network.”

“Not all of…”

“But this guy, Sherlock, really?  What was that even all about?” I ask, finally looking up at him.  “What was this _all_ about about?  What did you think it was going to accomplish?  Did you honestly think that would go off with one of these people and what?  Cheat.  Is that really what you think of me, Sherlock?”

“No, John, of course I didn’t think you would cheat on me.” Sherlock scoffs incredulously.  “Loyalty is one of your most admirable traits, but I am aware that I am not exactly the best option as being a person to spend a lot of time with, let alone a possible lifetime.  I was just seeing how easy it would be to tempt you towards a more amiable option, but apart from being loyal, you are also terribly stubborn.”   This is all said as a matter or factly, like he is running through a list of _obvious-to Sherlock-but not-to-anyone-else_ deductions and I have absolutely no idea what to say to that.  How is it that someone as ridiculously intelligent as the man sitting in front of me can be so devastatingly stupid?  And how many times do I have to tell him that I love _him?_   That I want to be with _him?_   So, yes, I have absolutely nothing to say to that because everything I can think of has already come out of my mouth.  He has already heard it all.  Apparently words are going to have no effect here, so I am going to have to _show_ him. And there is only one way, once I can guarantee that he will not scoff at the idea, that I can think of. 

 I have to marry Sherlock Holmes.  It is as simple as that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the DI Molloy case the flower left at the scene is Lotus Corniculatus or Birdsfoot Trefoil and is a plant that symbolises Revenge, just incase you wanted to know.


	8. Toast, Rules, Orgasms & Rings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns some rules and John buys a ring.

~~~~~~~~~~

Life goes back to normal, although it does take Sherlock a few text messages to make sure I no longer receive any more false attention.  It is a relief that I no longer have to worry about being hit on at work or chatted up on the tube.  

Unfortunately the same can’t be said about DI Molloy down at the Yard.  She still throws me a wink every time I see her, which thankfully isn’t often.  As it turns out she was not one of Sherlocks set-ups.  She was actually for real and is apparently not too clever.  Firstly, on our initial meeting Sherlock made it more than obvious that I was off limits.  Secondly, the Yard rivals any high school for rumour spreading and many a person has stopped talking abruptly once either Sherlock or I, or both of us, enter a room.  This has never been unheard of, but since we have made our relationship known it has happened more often, therefore she would have to be deaf not to have heard something about us being together, indicating that I was not available, and thirdly, and this was the big one, the second time that we met she asked if I had considered catching up for a drink and I told her thanks, but no thanks because I. Am. Taken.  I am not really sure what else I have to do to get the message across, but so long as I ignore her and she doesn’t progress to pinching my bum when she walks past it will probably fizzle out to nothing.  Eventually.  Hopefully.  Either Sherlock doesn’t notice her mild advances or he has learnt to not be so possessive.  I am going with the former, which also strengthens my belief that marrying Sherlock is the right decision, but trying to prepare for the proposal isn’s as easy as one would think, at least not with one of the worlds most observant men near-constantly by your side, and yes, preparation is necessary.  If I am going to do this then I am going to do it properly, as I only plan on doing it once, and that involves a ring.  Simple, right?

Wrong!

 So far, I have visited eight jewellers and there has been nothing appropriate to be found.  The rings are either too much or not enough, too cheap or too expensive, too tacky or too gaudy, or just plain not right.  I am starting to think that maybe this is a sign that I am probably not meant to ask Sherlock to marry me, but then again, I don’t really believe in signs, so I guess I will just have to keep on looking until I find the right one.

~o~

I feel the gentle nudging in the vicinity of my kidneys and choose to ignore it, just as I had ignored the sleepy “Johnnn” that proceeded it, hoping in vain that it will all go away and I will be left to return to that rather wonderful world of sleep, after practically two days of having none of it at all.

“Johnnn…toast.” Nudge to my lower back.

Apparently there will be no luck with the sleep.

“Get your own bloody toast” I mumble into the pillow and then wince as I realise I am laying in a drawly wet patch, but am too tired to give too much of a shit to move out of it.

I feel an arm slither over my back and a warm body scooting incredibly close to my own before a face settles on the pillow, centimetres from my mine.  I refuse to acknowledge him and keep my eyes closed hoping he will go away yet knowing that he won’t.

“But I like your toast” he murmurs, somewhat sleepy himself, his warm breath ghosting over my own lips.  I frown.  

“You told me, just yesterday morning that the toast I gave you was dry and bland and refused to eat it.”

“Maybe with some strawberry jam” Sherlock suggests, ignoring my comment and then following it through with a light kiss to the tip of my nose.

I arch an eyebrow and crack open my eye.  “You will get crumbs in the bed.”  I don’t know why I bother.  We have this argument every time and every time I end up getting him bloody toast, or eggs or muffins or what ever it is he wants.  If I had just got up and made the toast when he asked I could be almost ready to go back to sleep, unless of course he has other plans, which is quite probable.

“I’ll change the sheets” he promises emptily, bringing my attention back to him.

“No you won’t” I correct and he doesn’t deny it.

“If I get you toast will you let me go back to sleep?”

A sly grin spreads across his face.  “I could, or…” He lets the sentence hang, which means that no, he won’t let me go back to sleep, at least not until both of us have orgasmed in some fashion or other.

With a groaned “Fine” I sit up, knowing I won’t get any peace, either way and swing around so I am sitting on the edge of the bed.  I squint at the clock on the bed side cupboard.  “Jesus, Sherlock…It’s only one thirty” I groan again.  It appears today is going to be the groaning sort of day.  “I have only been asleep for an hour.”

I can practically feel the pout radiating off the man behind me, which is confirmed in his tone as he speaks next.  “It’s your fault I’m hungry in the first place” he rumbles and I refuse to have the argument that if he ate more in the first place then sex probably wouldn’t leave him feeling hungry at stupid hours of the night.  Instead I stand up and, pulling on my pants that had been thrown to the end of the bed earlier in the evening, I shuffle out of the bedroom.

“Don’t forget the jam” I hear the great git call as I am half way down the hallway and I can’t stop the smile that spreads lazily across my face.

Not even five minutes later Sherlock is eating toast, putting crumbs in the bed and making his fingers unnecessarily sticky, which he fixes by shoving them into my mouth every now and then.  The first time he did this I was almost asleep again and, completely taken by surprise, had accidentally bit down on the sudden intrusion.  

“Suck” he had ordered and I had just glared at him, which probably would have been more effective if the room wasn’t shrouded in darkness.  “They’re sticky, John” he had whined after I had refused to follow his command.

That is when I made the mistake of opening my mouth to tell him that the bathroom was two steps away, with a functioning sink and even hand wash, that would help remove the stickiness, but I hadn’t managed to get any of that out for the second my lips parted he was thrusting his fingers back in again.

So it carried on that way - after every couple of teeny tiny bird bites, which I am sure he was doing on purpose, because I have seen him practically inhale an entire muffin in two bites, he would hold his fingers out for me to either lick of suck clean which, for no reason other than wanting some piece and fucking quiet, I would do.  

Finally I hear the sound of the plate dropping to the floor and cringe at the loud noise in the quiet room.  

“Have you quite finished stripping back every ounce of self-respect I have, now?” I ask as he snuggles in closer to me, draping himself over me, boxing me in, but the words are spoken fondly, which is why Sherlock responds with a content “Quite.”

I actually, for one very brief moment, believe that he is going back to sleep until I feel his hand tracing lazy loops down my side.  They stop once they reach the waistband of my pants.

“You are wearing pants. John.”

“Astute observation, that.” Despite being tired I am actually starting to find myself aroused.

“But, why, John?”  It just shouldn’t be so endearing to hear a grown man whine like a petulant child, but I smile every time.

“Because someone made me get up and make them toast and I wasn’t doing that bare naked, that’s why” I tell him and start planning on how I can get him back for waking me up to make him bloody toast at one thirty in the god damn morning.  It only stands to reason that I get something out of this arrangement, something not completely orchestrated by Sherlock- _Mr - Manipulative_ \- Holmes for once.

“But you have been back in bed for fifteen minutes now.  That is plenty of time to remove the offending, and I do mean offending, article of clothing.”  I smile at the sound of the insolent frown on his face.

“Hmmm, yes, but during that time I _was_ trying to go back to sleep.”

I feel the warm air of Sherlocks disgruntled huff skate across my shoulder as he dips the tip of the finger into the waistband of my pants, sliding it around to the centre front.  “No, you were busy losing your self-respect” Sherlock announces as a matter of factly, but the undertone of amusement is there, which is why I decide that it is time to make my own move.  

A rather undignified cry leaves Sherlocks mouth as I flip him onto his back and straddle his hips.  “I think it is about time that I lay some ground rules” I tell him, trying to stay serious but the affronted look that is currently on his face, just visible now that my eyes have adjusted to the dark of the room, is just too precious and I grin down at him.

“John.” The one word is a warning, low and drawn out, but I ignore it.  Sherlock is used to taking charge in the bedroom.  Tonight it is my turn.

“Rule one” I tell him, grabbing his wrists and pinning them to his sides as he makes a move to grab my hips.  “Every now and then you can make your own damn toast” and I lean down and run my tongue from his jaw, up and around the shell of his ear.  I feel the slight shiver run through his body.  “Especially when you have kept me up for more than forty-eight hours and I have only managed to get an hour or so sleep.”

“Boring” Sherlock responded and I silenced any further remarks by biting his bottom lip.  

“Two” and at this I roll my hips against his, eliciting a small moan from the man under me.  “If I have been generous enough to get you your toast, or whatever else it is that you have demanded, you will not use me as your finger cleaning device.”  I lean down again, this time nibbling at the skin where the neck meets shoulder and a small gasp leaves Sherlocks mouth before he speaks.

“You don’t mind cleaning my hand when it is covered in our…”

He doesn’t get any further as I latch my teeth around his nipple and bite.  Hard.

A strangled groan leaves his mouth as my bite turns into a suck.

“Three” I murmur into his chest. “As much as I love your cock, and your fingers, and your mouth, I do also need sleep.  If I want to go back to sleep, you will let me.” I slide down his body, my lips dragging down his abdomen to stop just above his navel.  “Do we have an understanding?”

“I will agree to no such… _huhhhn_ …”

My tongue dips into his bellybutton, rimming around the edge before I move down.

“Try again, Sherlock” I tell him teasingly, my mouth now hovering over the head of his cock, my breath rolling down the length of his shaft.  “Do we have an understanding?”

Sherlock goes to refuse again, I can tell by the way inhales sharply.  I don’t let him voice his rejection.  Instead I wrap my lips around the plush head of his cock, and suck, running my tongue over the slit.  I pull off of Sherlocks cock and look back up at him.  He is staring back down at me with eyes wides and a rather arousing blush spreading from his chest up to his cheeks.

“I mean, If you really don’t want to agree to my terms I am happy to lay back on  my pillow and go back to sleep.”  The whole time I am talking to him my hands have been sitting gently so my fingers are angled up over his groin and spread over his thighs, but low enough that the pad of my thumbs can trace soft circles over his balls.  I bite back a smug smile as I see Sherlock nod his head.  Sometimes he is extremely easy to wind up.

“So you want me to stop?” I ask, knowing that that is the exact opposite of what Sherlock wants but I refuse to give in until he agrees.

“No…keep going” Sherlock pants.  

“So you agree to my terms?” I ask, my mouth moving lower, closer to his prick again, so as I speak my breath, warm and humid, ghosts over the sensitive skin.

“God, yes, John.  Just, keep going” and the last word is punctuated with him thrusting up towards my mouth.

With a satisfied smile I lower my mouth back down to his body and start licking and kissing at the base of his cock, earning a frustrated whine from above, and more attempted thrusts from the body under me.  I move my hands from where they are sitting in the crease of his thigh, up to his hips and hold him down while my mouth continues to tease while it slowly explores Sherlocks cock.  

I lick and nibble and bite and suck.  I work my way up his shaft, tasting the pre-come at the top before moving back down again.  I bury my nose in his pubic hair, and in the crease where thigh meets hip and sniff, taking in the musky, earth smell that is Sherlock.  My mouth travels over his scrotum and, pushing his thighs up against his stomach I lick down his perineum, and kiss his exposed hole before working back up to his cock, where I lick up the full length again.

“Suck” I instruct thrusting two of my fingers into Sherlocks mouth and then let my own mouth work back over the head of his cock.  I suck on his penis the same way his sucks on my fingers.  I increase the pressure when he does, I take more of him into my mouth as he does.  If he uses his tongue, I use mine in the same way and when he moans around my fingers, I moan around his cock, which causes him to arch up, thrusting himself further into my mouth.  At that I pull my fingers out of his mouth and a small cry escapes his lips and I feel them follow my fingers, just for a second before his head flops back down onto the pillow.

I continue to work my mouth over his cock, sucking the length and tonguing the underside, as my spit-slicked fingers move down, under his balls, and push against his entrance, waiting for him to push back, and he does.

Slowly I slide my fingers in, both at the same time, and a grunted cry is pulled from Sherlocks mouth at the sudden stretch, but it is all fine.  He has told me more than once that he likes the stretch.  Slowly I continue to push my fingers in while my mouth keeps sucking and licking and Sherlocks breathing is becoming heavier and more shallow and is interspersed with tiny grunts and small moans.

Once my fingers are all the way in I hold them there, my mouth ceasing it’s movements, just until I am certain that he is not going to be in any pain, and when he gives his hips a small thrust I begin moving again, my mouth working in tandem with the thrust and scissoring of my fingers.  The slow rhythm that I start with, picks up in pace and before long Sherlock is a sweaty, writhing mess under me.  I purse my lips tightly around the head of his cock and suck, just as I crook my fingers up, pushing against Sherlocks prostate. 

A loud cry issues from the man as his back lifts off the mattress and I feel an increase in the flow of pre-come on my tongue.

“Johhhhhhhn….”  Sherlocks hands are scrabbling for purchase in my hair and he is trying to thrust up again, but I have other plans.  I pull my fingers out of his arse and my lips unwrap from around his cock and I kneel back, away from his body.

“Jo…ohn” he gasps brokenly.  “Don’t ….why are…”

“Shhh” I tell him soothingly and I grab his arms and pull him into a sitting positing, with me kneeling between his legs.  I lean forward and kiss him before I slide around so I am kneeling behind him, removing my pants (somewhat awkwardly) in the process.  I see his head turn to look at me in the dark and I know there is a confused expression on his face.  I choose not to explain.  Instead I nudge his hips back, indicating that I want him to move and within seconds I have him hovering over me, ready to sink onto my cock.  My arm snakes around his body so my hand is spread over his chest, my other positioning my cock under him and I kiss between his shoulder blades as I guide him down onto me.

A hiss leaves my mouth while a deep, throaty groan is pulled from Sherlock as he sinks down onto my cock and for a few moments we sit like that, him in my lap, his back to my chest, me holding him close, until his hips twitch.  Sherlock has never, for as long as I have known him, been a patient man.  He will never be a patient man, so there really seems no sense in torturing the both of us in dragging this out any longer, trying to get him to learn how to be patient, because it will never work.  So I thrust up, hard, pulling Sherlocks hips down to meet my thrust and Sherlock cries out.  I do it again and again, getting faster and before long Sherlock is bouncing up and down on my lap, his thighs squeezing mine and the muscles in his arse clenching around my cock.  I keep my hand on his chest while my other one works its way up into his curls and I tug his head to the side, exposing his neck.  I groan as I see a drip of sweat running down the smooth skin and I lean in to lick it up.  Sherlock tastes spicy and salty and I lick again, not getting enough as he continues to fuck himself on my cock and I can feel myself getting close.  As I continue to attack his neck with my tongue my hand leaves his hair and goes straight to his cock where I wrap my fingers around the hard length and start stroking in time with his hips pumping up and down.

A loud “ _John_ ” leaves his mouth as he feels my fingers wrap around him and I know he is close when his head drops back on my shoulder, his eyes closed, an almost desperate keening floating out from between his slightly parted lips.

I really start thrusting now, wanting to get us both off, my hand working furiously over his cock, which is getting wetter with every stroke.

Soon Sherlocks keening turns into a steady stream of “Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn” and with one final, hard thrust I squeeze my hand around Sherlocks cock and feel my hand fill with hot semen as at the same time I ejaculate inside of Sherlock, both of us stilling, rigidly against each other, moans mingling in perfect harmony as orgasms crash through our bodies.  A few small thrusts later and we are both completely spent, me leaning back uncomfortably against the headboard, Sherlock leaning against me, both of us panting in the dark.

Eventually we manage to compose ourselves and I stagger into the bathroom on shaky legs and clean myself off before bringing a fresh flannel back to clean Sherlock up with.  I throw the flannel on the floor and we both lay down under the quilt again.

“How often do I have to make my own toast?” Sherlock asks lazily as he drapes himself over my body in his usual position. It takes my pleasure fogged brain a few moments to realise we are discussing the rules again.

“I dunno” I slur sleepily.  “Just anytime you have run me into the ground before running me into the mattress.  I don’t have energy stores like you."  The last two words are morphed into a yawn but I am sure Sherlock gets the drift.

“And how many hours sleep would you consider a decent amount of time before waking you?” he asks, his fingers lazily drawing triangles and squares on my shoulder.  I can’t help but feel a little bit put out that he doesn’t even sound a little bit sleepy.

I yawn again at the thought of being sleepy before I answer in a low mumble.  “Four, maybe five hours.” I suggest hoping that he will see this as an adequate amount of sleep.

He just hums in a way that suggest he thinks the whole thing is boring, but says no more and I let out a small sigh as I start to doze off.

I am almost asleep, again, Sherlock wrapped around me, his head on my shoulder when I am pulled out of my almost slumber by one word.

“Horatio?”

At first I think Sherlock may possibly be rambling in his sleep.  He _doesn’t_ do that sometimes just like he most definitely _doesn’t_ snore, but his fingers are lightly tracing geometric shapes, now on my stomach so, awake he is.

“Sleep, Sherlock, that’s all I want” I sigh, figuring that whatever he is on about can wait until _morning_ morning.  The type of morning where the sun is up and I have a cup of tea in my hand but as usual, Sherlock has his own ideas.

“John Horatio Watson” he says and my hand rubs tiredly over my eyes as an alternative for slapping him across the head.  

“You are honestly keeping me awake to discuss my name?” I ask and so what if it sounds a bit pleading.

“I’m right, aren’t I.  Your middle name is Horatio” and he sounds somewhat triumphant, his fingers pausing in their pattern making.

“No” I groan, my hopes of actually getting sleep slowly slipping away.  “My middle name is most certainly _not_ Horatio.  My parents called me John.  Do you really think they had the imagination or the want to make my middle name something as ridiculous as Horatio?”

With an over-contemplative hum, Sherlocks fingers pick up their tracing and silence once again falls across our room and I finally fall asleep.

~o~

I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, looking at the screen.  There is a message from Sherlock.

**I miscalculated.  Suspect proceeded sooner than thought.  Police have her in custody.  Stakeout no longer necessary  SH**

I sigh and stand up from the ground behind the dumpster in a lane in Hounslow  where I have been sitting, patiently waiting for someone who was apparently never going to show, for the past hour and somehow manage to stop myself from groaning as my muscles protest as they stretched back into place.

I brush the dust from my trousers and make my way from the small lane I was hiding in and out onto the main road.  It is on my second attempt at hailing a taxi that I spy it, just across the road nestled between an op-shop and a bookstore. 

“ _VUKOVIĆ & VUKOVIĆ - Family Jewellery Makers since 1873_” the sign reads and something in me tells me that this is the shop I have been looking for.  Making sure it is safe to cross, I jog across the road and stop in front of the small redbrick store.  It looks old but well kept, a small window displaying some of their more detailed pieces.  I push my way through the heavy door to find old yet stylish displays lining the walls and glass display cases neatly set out in the middle of the store, all adorned with jewellery ranging from the very basic to the outright ostentatious.

I look up when a little old man steps from behind the counter.

“Good afternoon” he greets in a thick Croatian accent, his hands held out in a friendly gesture, a wide smile on his face.

I can’t help but smile back at him and I nod my head at him in a return greeting.  “Afternoon.”

“Is there anything I can help you with or are you just looking today?” He asks, his tone friendly shop owner, not pushy salesperson.

I go to tell him that I am just looking for now but decide that I may as well just go straight to the rings, as that is why I am here.  “I am looking for a ring” I tell him.  “An engagement ring” I add for clarification.

The man’s smile widens and his eyes sparkle.  “Certainly, just this way” and he turns to the back of the store where he slips behind a glass counter, pulling out a small keyring from his pocket.  I look down at the display as he unlocks the cabinet and see a major flaw.  

“Umm, sorry, I don’t think…It’s not for a woman” I tell him as he reaches in to pull out a tray full of elegant gold and diamond bands.  The gentleman pauses for a brief second and then replaces the tray, locking the cabinet again.

“Of course, of course.  Then maybe these ones?” and he moves to the next cabinet which is adorned with rings of a more masculine, or at least less dainty, nature.  After unlocking the cabinet the shop owner pulls out the tray and places it on top of the counter and before he has a chance to give his sales pitch I have spotted what I have been looking for, for the past two weeks.

There, nestled in the velvet slot in the middle of the tray is a white gold ring, satin finish on the centre band with thin polished edges.  It is simple, yet classy.  It is not too much, yet enough.  It is just right.

“I see you like this one” he tells me, plucking the ring out of the tray and holding it out to me.  I take it from his hand and hold, rolling it between my thumb and index finger.  It feels right.  I don’t know how, but it just does.  This is the one I have been looking for.

“I’ll take it” I tell him, not bothering to find out how much it costs.  Fifteen minutes later I leave the shop with a small black leather box tucked into my pocket.  Now all I have to do is find the right time to ask the man to marry me.

 


	9. It's Just You & Me...& Apparently Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as John has built up the courage to ask Sherlock to marry him an old friend of the detectives arrives, throwing all of Johns carefully laid plans into disarray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, bit of a long one this one, and a bit angsty.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sherlock” I call from the bathroom, where I am currently standing in nothing but a towel, searching through the bathroom cabinet for a bottle of aftershave that was definitely there a few weeks ago.  A vague “Hmmm” floats in from our bedroom, indicating that Sherlock is in there but is already uninterested in what I have to say.

“You by any chance haven’t seen my aftershave, have you?”  What I am really asking is, ‘ _What did you do with it you insufferable berk_?’

“I threw it out” He informs me, strolling into the bathroom, barefoot, Shirt not buttoned up all the way.  “Is it Hugo?”

I place my face in my hands and try not to squeeze the tension away too hard.  “Why?” I ask  “And I am not answering your question until you give a perfectly satisfactory answer to mine.”

Sherlock looked from where he was buttoning his shirt, dark blue - it looked nice, and stared at me rather innocent like.  “Because your natural scent alone is wonderfully seductive, John.  Why would you want to alter it?”  

I am actually a little bit shocked.  He sounded surprisingly genuine and I floundered for what to say back to him.  ‘ _You smell very nice too_ ’ doesn’t seem to cover it, so instead I turn back to the bathroom cabinet and grab my toothbrush.

“No, my middle name is not Hugo.”  I smile at the disgruntled huff as Sherlock turns and walks back into the bedroom, muttering all of the names he had tried so far.  So far, _Humphrey_ has been my favourite.

I finish in the bathroom and then make a quick trip up to my old room, which is generally used for storage these days.  I pull open the wardrobe door and pull out the black dress bag and remove out the dark blue suit that is inside and proceed to get dressed.

I do a final once over in the mirror, and coming up pretty pleased with the result I pick my phone up from the dressing table and check the message from the restaurant one more time to re-confirm that I have the right day and time.  I do.  7:45 tonight.  

Everything is planned.  I have already told Sherlock that we are going out to dinner.  He just grumbled about the perfected ease and convenience of takeaway and I told him that I felt like going out because I needed a change of goddamn scenery.  He had grumbled some more but had then dropped to couch with a sulky “fine” and tapped away at something on his phone.

I had ordered a new suit, and had somehow smuggled it, not only in to the flat, but also up to my room without getting caught by Sherlock.  

I had convinced Sherlock to shower and put on clean clothes and I myself have showered and shaved. 

Everything is set in place.

I smooth my hands down the front of the jacket one more time and the pat the small cube in my pocket before heading downstairs.

“Special occasion?” Sherlock asks as I come into the room, his tone bored, but there is a heat simmering in his eyes as he takes in the new suit.  It is not as nice as any of his suits but it is a damn site better that my brown one that Sherlock keeps threatening to use in an experiment.

“Nope” I tell him and he looks at me skeptically.  I shrug. “One of the girls at work recommended this restaurant, I thought I’d give it a go.  She told me I needed to ‘ _make an effort_ ’ though.  It’s not my usual sort of establishment.”  None of that last part was a lie, so it was easy to tell and Sherlock seemed to take it at face value and doesn’t pry any further.

“Well then, I approve” he says with a small smile, and I am not sure if it is over the establishment or the suit or both, so I just smile back in return.

“We should probably head off soon.  The reservation is for 7:45.”  Sherlock nods and gets up off the couch, just as the doorbell downstairs rings.  I bite my lip to stop the groan of frustration.  It had better not be a fucking client or so help me….

I have had this night planned, and managed to keep it a secret, for two weeks, (as that is how long I had to wait to be able to get a table at the restaurant).  I had even rang Greg this morning to ask him not to call Sherlock in unless it was a ten, and even then, if it could wait until after 11pm (by which time I would have at least asked the question), that would be great.  I figured a nice meal, maybe a walk through Regents park and then when we got home, I would ask him.  Neither of us would appreciate making a scene (at least not that kind of scene) in public and if things go the way I want them to I am hoping to be able to get Sherlock completely naked, except for the ring, and under me, or over me, or anyway he damn well pleases, without having to wait for a fucking taxi ride home.

So if this is a client, who is chatting to Mrs Hudson right now, they will just have to come back tomorrow, or maybe the day after, either way tonight is not an option.

I look to Sherlock and am startled to see that he looks a bit…confused?…at the sound of the person, who is chatting with Mrs Hudson, their voices too muffled to make out any words, as they make their way up to out flat.

I go to open my mouth to ask what is wrong but am halted by a knock on the door and Sherlocks mask of indifference, one that I very rarely see these days, comes back up just as Mrs Hudson opens the door with a “Woo-hoo boys.  I have a visitor for you.”  The small lady steps into our living room and her gaze rakes over the two of us, standing next to each other and a delighted smile takes over her face.  “My, don’t you two look dashing.  Are you heading out somewhere special?”

It takes a bit for her words to sink in because at first I am distracted by the man that had followed her up the stairs.  Tall, about two inches taller than Sherlock and broader; dark skinned; impeccably dressed - quite possibly shops from the same place as Sherlock, although this man wears a tie and he has the most liquidy chocolate brown eyes I have ever seen.  Simply put, he is gorgeous.  Not as gorgeous as Sherlock, but still enough to make me feel horribly average looking.

I am then distracted by Sherlock, who is staring straight at this man, his mask still in place so I cannot figure out what he is feeling and I don’t like that feeling one little bit.

“Yeah, just trying out a new restaurant” I tell her after a few seconds of strained silence fills the room.  I’m sorry, you are…?” I ask politely, nodding towards the stranger next to our landlady.

“Victor Trevor” Sherlock supplies, before _Victor_ even gets a chance to open his mouth.  At this Victor smiles, no, grins at Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes” he almost sings, and his voice is deep.  Deeper than Sherlocks, but not as smooth.  It has a slight huskiness to it, the kind that comes from smoking too much, but it suits him.  “I wasn’t sure you would remember me” and his grin grows even more.

I look to Sherlock.  There is no change and I am starting to wonder if I need to remove this man from our flat.

“I can assure you, Victor, I remember everything about you.”  I swallow, heavily at that response.  Victor is someone from Sherlocks past, that is clearly evident.  But for Sherlock to make a comment like that, that indicates that Victor is someone of substantial significance.  

“I don’t doubt that for a minute” Victor agrees, almost cheekily and I am starting to like this guy less and less.  I am about to ask Sherlock for a quiet word in the kitchen to find out what the fuck is actually going on when suddenly Sherlock’s face breaks out into a huge grin and he steps forward, and I almost choke on my own tongue when he wraps his arms around Victor Trevor in what appears to be a bear hug.

“My god, Victor, what are you doing here?”  I am feeling quite out of place at the moment, like I am somehow in a dream.  A dream where Sherlock has friends and actually hugs them happily.

“I was in London for a few nights and I thought I’d look you up.  It’s been, what?  Ten years?”

“Twelve” Sherlock corrects.  “And a half.”

I am vaguely aware of Mrs Hudson waving a small goodbye at me before tiptoeing down the stairs as my head moves back and forth between the two men, who are thankfully no longer hugging, as Victor explains that work had brought him back home and he had a few days spare.  He was apparently feeling nostalgic and looked up Sherlock, deciding a reunion would be a grand fucking idea.  I think it is a terrible  fucking idea, not that anyone would care what I thought.  I may as well have been invisible.  I look down to my watch.  It is 7:25.  I shuffle nervously on my feet and give a quiet cough.  As much as I don’t really like this guy, (and it is purely for jealous reasons, I know), I still feel like a bit of a prick for interrupting a reunion with someone who was apparently close to Sherlock at some stage and whom he hasn’t seen in over a decade.  

At this Sherlock does look over to me.  “Right, John.  The reservation.”  I give a tight smile and a small nod of my head and absolutely hate myself at just the thought of my next words.  

“Would you like me to ring and cancel?” I ask.  I try and sound like it won’t bother me in the slightest, but I am pretty sure that I fail.  I want to look away from Sherlock as he is clearly torn between wanting to keep our date and wanting to carry on with Victor, but I don’t.  In the end it is Victor who breaks the silence.

“I can come back tomorrow” he offers genially and I think that maybe he isn’t such a wanker after all.  I go to thank him when I am stopped by Sherlock saying, “No, not at all.  Why don’t you join us!”

I want to scream NO NO NO NO - NOT AN OPTION - GO WITH VICTORS PLAN.  But instead I find myself smiling pleasantly at Sherlock who is smiling proudly at Victor who in turn is smiling gratefully at Sherlock.

“If it is fine with…”  and Victor looks to me and I realise that I haven’t actually been introduced.

“John Watson” I tell him, holding out my hand.  “And, no, its fine.  Please.”  If I had hated myself for offering to cancel our date then I abhorred myself at that sentence.

“Ah, the blogger” Victor smiled and I just smiled in return as he shook my hand.

“That’s me” I reply.

“Well, we should go” Sherlock announces and grabs his coat off the hook.  I grab mine and follow him and Victor down the stairs.  “John can call and add another party to the reservation on the way, can’t you John” and Sherlock turns to me at the door with a boyish grin on his face and despite hating this entire evening already, I can’t help but genuinely smile back at him.

“Consider it done” I tell him, pulling my phone out of my pocket as Sherlock steps out onto Baker Street and hails a cab.

~o~

Dinner is torture.  Pure, slow, painful torture.  After a cab ride, where I was not acknowledged once, except by the cab driver who thanked me when I paid the fare, we are seated at the back of the restaurant, which I had requested in order to give Sherlock and myself as much privacy as possible. 

Sherlock and Victor speak animatedly about their university days, which is where they had met after an incident with a highland terrier that resulted in four stitches on Sherlocks right ankle (now I know where the scar had come from).

Sherlock then allows Victor to order for him, while I am left to order for myself, not that I want Victor ordering for me.  That would just be weird.

As we wait for our meals to arrive it transpires that Sherlock and Victor were much more than just friends at university and I suddenly find myself liking the guy less and less.  No one should be smiling at their ex as much as Victor is smiling at Sherlock.  

It could be due to my dislike, and therefore distrust of the other man but I am sure that the look in his eyes is getting more and more predatory and I am sure his small touches, just a hand on Sherlocks arm at the conclusion of some amusing anecdote, or a good natured clap on the shoulder, are becoming more and more frequent and lingering just that half a second longer each time.  What bothers me even more is the way that Sherlock beams at the man at each touch.

The mood sombre’s somewhat when Sherlock asks about Victors mother.  “She is doing better” Victor replies.  We are then saved by the uncomfortable silence by the food arriving.

For a while we eat in silence when Victor actually addresses me.  “So, John, how long have you and Sherlock been flatmates for?

I manage not to choke on the food in my mouth.  _Flatmates?_   Surely it was clear by the way we are dressed and the location that was picked for our meal that we were maybe a bit more than just _flatmates_.  I go to tell Victor that we are, in fact, going out, but Sherlock speaks before me.

“Seven months, one week and one day” he announces, apparently proud of the fact that we have been cohabiting for such a long time.  I want to say something, to make it more, but all I can do is blink stupidly in Sherlocks direction, my brain refusing to come up with anything, so I look back down at my plate, suddenly not hungry anymore.

Victor chuckles.  “Still accurately precise I see.” 

I want to tell him, not as accurate as he would think, but instead I agree and take a sip of my wine, fighting back the urge to down the whole lot in one gulp and pour myself another one.

“You deserve a medal, John” I look up, knowing where this is going and not appreciating it one bit.  “Sherlock is not an easy man to live with, and I would know.” 

I just smile knowingly. “Oh, I don’t know.  You just need to learn to understand him.  It gets a lot easier once you do that.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Sherlock straighten up and actually beam in my direction.  A corner of my mouth cocks up into a half grin as Victor smiles uncomfortably and picks up his glass.  “I guess so” he agrees and takes a sip of his wine.

_One point to Dr John Watson, thank you very much._

“So, what exactly is it that you do?” I ask, using the lull in conversation to steer the topic away from Sherlock&Victor.

Victor seems to perk up somewhat, and I realise that he actually enjoys talking about himself.  I am still baffled how he and Sherlock managed to maintain a basic friendship, let alone a romantic relationship as Sherlock also likes to talk about himself.  I can only assume that the conversations were very one-sided on both sides of the party, unless of course there wasn’t much need for conversation.

I wince into my glass as I down the rest of my wine, pushing that thought aside.

“Have you seen pretty woman?” Victor asks, unexpectedly.

I stare at him, for a brief second, trying to find a reason behind such a random comment.  “So, you’re a prostitute?” I deadpan.

I hear a snort of laughter from Sherlock but it is only barely audible over the deep, loud chuckle that comes from Victor.  “I can see why you like him Sherlock” Victor says as his laughter fades away.  Sherlock just tips his head to the side and arches his eyebrows as if to say “ _Welllll…._ ” 

I ignore him and turn my attention back to Victor.  “No, seriously.  I haven’t seen that movie in over twenty years.”

“I am CEO of a company called VT Enterprises.  Like the dashing hero in that story” at this Sherlock snorts again, and I almost copy him, “I buy businesses cheap, break them down and then sell the pieces for a lot more than what I brought them for.”

“Sounds interesting” I say, trying to sound interested, but I am sure it comes out flat, because honestly, it sounds the complete opposite of interesting.

“It pays the bills” He shrugs.

“I’m sure it does.”  Again the table falls into a silence, but not an uncomfortable one as before.  It isn’t long before it is broken again.

“So, what do you do, John Watson?” Victor asks.  “I notice on your blog there is a Dr before your name.  What are you a doctor of, exactly?”  Victor sounds genuinely interested but something tells me that he is just a good an actor as Sherlock and probably couldn’t give a rats arse about my qualifications.  

“Medicine” I reply.  “Mainly GP work these days.”  

“Sounds interesting” Victor says, mimicking my own comments back to me.  I smile at him, because, yes, before my shoulder was shot to hell it was almost the most interesting job I could think of.  

“Not as interesting as running around with Sherlock” I tell him,  “Which I actually seem to do more of than actually being a doctor, although, the amount that I patch him up may possibly put it on an ever par.”

Again, I talk Victor into silence.  Obviously he has never actually read my blog.  Probably only glimpsed it today to get our address from.  If he had read it he would have had both of those answers.

_Another point to me!!_

I almost jump as I feel something touch my hand and instantly relax when I look to see that it is Sherlock’s hand covering my own on the table.  I look up to him and he is smiling softly at me.

When I look back up to Victor I see a hardness in his eyes that was most definitely not there before and I instantly recognise it for what it is.  Jealousy.  Victor had come to visit Sherlock with plans of his own.  I had just ruined those plans. I tally that up as one more point in my corner.

The look is only in Victors eyes for a brief second before the friendly softness is back.

We slip back into silence as we continue our meal.  It doesn’t last long before Victor starts up again.  I have never come across someone who likes the sound of their voice so much, and that is say something due to the fact that I have had many a conversation with Mycroft Holmes.

I don’t really pay much attention to what Victor is saying, so much as how he is saying it.  Pretty much everything is directed at Sherlock.  His grin is getting wider, yet not cheesy, and his eyes get darker when he looks at _my_ partner.  He leans in as close as the tables will allow without it being too obvious and to my horror Sherlock is mimicking his actions.  I am not sure if he is conscientiously aware that he is doing it, but it leaves a very unsettle feeling in the pit of my stomach. 

“I know” Victor announces as he pours the last of the wine into Sherlocks glass.  “Why don’t we finish up here and head out to a club, one of our old haunts, hey Sherlock.”

Victor seems quite excited at the idea.  I would prefer to have hot coal tipped down the front of my pants, probably best not to express it quite that way though.

“Maybe another time” I politely decline at the exact time that Sherlock says “That sounds like a marvellous plan.”

Yet another awkward silence stretches across the table as I look to Sherlock and he looks back at me.  How do we proceed?  I honestly can’t handle the idea of spending the rest of the evening watching Victor flirt with Sherlock and Sherlock lap up the attention, but Sherlock obviously wants to head out with Victor.  In my peripheral vision I can see Victor lean back comfortably in his chair, as if settling in to watch a good match on the telly.  The bastard is enjoying this.

“Well, I suppose we could…” I start, somewhat wearily, but Sherlock cuts me off.

“No, it’s alright John” he tells me, placing his hand once again over mine reassuringly, and I feel myself relaxing somewhat.  “You go home, you’re tired, I can tell.  Victor and I can head out on our own for a while.” If I had thought I was tense before I had been wrong.  My body actually tenses so much that my shoulder starts to twinge.  I go to tell him that, no, I will definitely be joining him but Victor leans forward and gently slaps his hand on the table top.  

“Wonderful!  It’s all set then” He grins at Sherlock before turning his attention to me and the smile he shoots me is feral.  “And don’t worry John, I promise to have him back by midnight” and he follows it up with a wink, which isn’t even half as appealing as when Sherlock does it.  Actually, it is not appealing at all.  I look to Sherlock, who is finishing off the last of his wine and I find that, without actually causing a scene or an argument, or possibly both, there is nothing I can do about the fact that Victor and Sherlock will be going out, while I head home alone.

Once outside Sherlock hails a cab and, stepping aside, offers it to me.  

“You take this one” I tell him, for some reason not wanting to leave the two of them here, at this restaurant, alone.  I know it is a stupid notion but it just feels damning, the thought of me driving away from all of this.  “I will grab the next one.”

Sherlock looks to me with a small frown of worry.  “Seriously, go.  I’ll be fine” I tell him and the frown turns into a gracious smile before he leans over and kisses me on the cheek before sliding into the cab.  Victor wastes no time in following and as he reaches over to grab the door to pull it shut he throws me a dark, yet victorious smile, and then the door is shut and the cab is speeding away and I am left, standing on the curb, wondering if I just did the right thing.

~o~

Back at Baker Street I stand in our bedroom, alone, in front of the dresser with all intents on pulling out a fresh pair of pyjamas.  Instead I pull the small ring box out of my pocket and open it.  It was a ridiculous idea anyway.  Sherlock Holmes was never meant to be kept, as least not by someone as ordinary as myself.  I snap the lid shut and open the top draw of the dresser, reaching to the back and pulling out a scratchy pair of cheap brown socks that I never wear.  I am not even sure why I had kept them, but right now, they would serve a purpose.  I unfold them and wrap them around the ring box before refolding them together again and push them back towards the back of the drawer again, careful not to disturb Sherlocks sock index while I am at it.

Refusing to think any more about how much of a disaster tonight has turned out to be and definitely not thinking about the look that Victor shot me before they left I pull a pair of pyjamas out of the drawer and go to the bathroom to get changed, not giving a shit that the suit I was wearing is now in a crumpled mess in front of the laundry hamper.  I brush my teeth and head back to the bedroom.  

As I turn off the lamp and settle into bed I try very hard not to think about what Sherlock and Victor are up to.  I’m not worried that Sherlock would give into Victors blatantly obvious advances.  Sherlock isn’t the type to cheat.  Maybe call me up to tell me that it is over and he is staying with Victor, but not the kind to do so behind my back, but I was worried.  

Obviously he and Victor had been close in their younger years and whatever had driven them apart was obviously no longer an issue.  They had so much more history than what Sherlock and I had.  Was there a possibility of Sherlock wanting to rekindle that relationship?  Victor was certainly interested.  I restlessly roll onto my side and tell myself, for the tenth time to stop feeling so pathetically sorry for myself.  Sherlock was with me.  We were happy.  I roll back onto my back.  Were we happy?  I know I am happy.  I know Sherlock is happy to a degree, but how do I know that he is really happy?  With us?  With me?

With a frustrated growl I roll onto my stomach.  This is stupid.  There has been no indication that Sherlock has been thinking about breaking off what we have and I refuse to let Victor bloody Trevor feed my already unfounded insecurities any further.  

Deciding that sleeping on  my stomach is not comfortable if I don’t have Sherlock to use as a body pillow I roll back onto my back and then curse because now the blankets are all tangled around my legs.

With a few creatively strewn together swearwords I kick my legs until the blankets are all down the end of the bed and feel slightly better, even if a bit childish, after getting that particular spat out of my system.  But I am also cold and the blankets are in a jumble at the end of the bed.

Tonight is just not my night.

I reach over and find the switch on the lamp and just as the room clicks into brightness I hear the front door open.  With a confused frown I look to the clock on the bedside cupboard.  It is only 10:07.  The way Sherlock and Victor were carrying on I was expecting to be woken up (should I have actually have been able to fall asleep) at some ridiculous hour of the early morning.

I suddenly have a horrible feeling that Sherlock has brought Victor back to the flat for a night cap or some such nonsense, but listening carefully there is definitely only one pair of steps coming up the stairs and they are most definitely Sherlocks steps.

I debate for approximately five seconds as to whether I should go out to greet him in the living room but then decide that no, I won’t.  Still feeling somewhat childishly sulky I decide that if he had wanted to see me when he got home he would have come home with me and then I proceed to take my sulk out on the blankets as I pull and shake them with a bit more force than strictly necessary, trying to get them to lay flat on the bed again.

“Did they offend you personally or have you just developed a violent affinity towards bedding?”  I look up at Sherlock, standing in the door, unbuttoning his jacket with a curious eyebrow cocked in my direction.  

I don’t want to explain that I essentially had a hissy fit over the blankets and continue to smooth them into something that will function as a warm covering for the two of us.

“Why are you home?” I ask as I smooth (not slap) at a crease in the wool, hoping I don’t sound as petulant to Sherlocks ears as I do to my own.  After all, It’s not him I am really angry with.  It is this entire fuck up of a night, and mainly myself for allowing Victor _dick head_ Trevor to get to me.

“I live here.” The answer is said with a look that practically asks if I have hit my head recently.

“No, I mean, you were going out with Victor.  You haven’t even been gone an hour.” This time I don’t sound like I should be following the statement by sticking out my tongue and I smooth out another crease in the bedding, a bit less angrily.

Sherlock just shrugs and steps further into the bedroom, sliding his jacket off as he walks across the room to drape it elegantly over the back of the chair in the corner of the room.  It isn’t long before his trousers follow and a somewhat depressing feeling skips into my mind as I think of my own suit, squashed up on the bathroom floor.

I lay back up on my pillow and stare at the ceiling as the sounds of Sherlock completely stripping off fill the room.  The soft rustle of cloth against skin, the even softer thud of his pants hitting the floor next to where he has no doubt left his socks, and then he pads over to the bed and slides in between the sheets, scooting up against me and draping his arm across my stomach.

“You are wearing pyjamas” he tells me.

I frown up the ceiling.  “Are we stating the obvious now?” I ask not sure if I want this conversation to turn physical.  

“The only time you have worn pyjamas, to bed, in the past four months have been on nights when you haven’t wanted me to touch you.  When you had that stomach bug, when I compared you to Anderson, which I didn’t mean even a little bit, and also when I tested ink absorption on every single one of your Christmas jumpers.”

“My Nanna knitted me the green one” I bite, remembering that day very clearly.

“John, we are regressing.  The point of my observation was not to point out the obvious.  It was to try and ascertain what I had done wrong this time round.”

A tired sigh huffs out of my mouth.  I can’t answer that question because Sherlock honestly hasn’t done anything wrong.  He didn’t know what my plans were for the night.  He didn’t know Victor Trevor was going to show up and it most certainly wasn’t his fault that Victor was a colossal prick. I had even encouraged, albeit halfheartedly, for him to go out with Victor after dinner.  Sherlock had done absolutely nothing wrong and I was being completely unfair.

“Nothing” I tell him, finally turning my head to look at him.  I smile.  It is small but genuine.  “You did nothing wrong at all, and I don’t know why I put pyjamas on.  I wasn’t even aware it was something I did when I wanted to be left alone until you pointed it out. I just…I don’t know really, but it was nothing you did.”

Sherlock studies my face for a bit, probably looking for a lie.  I’m not sure what he sees but after a few second he says “You didn’t like Victor.”  It wasn’t a question and I open my mouth to deny it.  Sherlock was allowed to have friends after all, but he would spot the lie straight away, so I decide to be honest.

“No, I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t hang out with him.”  Sherlocks face scrunches at the term _hang out_ and I almost smile at the thought of him doing something as adolescent as _hanging out_.

Sherlock studies my face a bit longer and I can't help but follow his eyes, with my own, as they move from one feature of my face to the next.  In the end, his eyes lock onto mine. “You were right not to” Sherlock says, finally breaking the silence.  I frown in confusion.

“Victor Trevor is a right prat.”

At this my frown deepens.  “But, you were so happy to see him tonight” I point out.  “And you were both getting on famously at dinner.”

The muscles in Sherlocks face do this weird sort of spasm as if he wants to scoff at the idea of him getting along with Victor and at the same time wants to sulk at the idea that he had got along with Victor.  In the end he decides on looking tired and again looks me in the eye and proceeds to tell me about him and Victor.

“I met Victor half way through my studies.  I was twenty and he was twenty-three.  I won’t say we became friends straight away.  I thought he was an idiot and told him exactly what I thought he should do with that mongrel dog of his.  Somehow, me being an arrogant tosser sparked some interest on his behalf and he continued to follow me around, trying to engage in conversation and what not.  Eventually I decided that if I just ignored him, instead of trying to drive him away, he would get bored.  Unfortunately he took this as a sign that I had accepted him and over time he sort of just became…there.  We had somehow developed a friendship without me even realising it.”

I try and keep my face neutral as I think about the parallels between Victor and Sherlocks friendship and mine and Sherlocks friendship.  If any of my unease shows, Sherlock ignores it and continues his story.

“Within months we were sleeping together.  It was never exclusive, at least not straight away.  It was odd of me to go back to the same partner more than once or twice.  It was definitely unheard of that I stick with just the one person, but after a year I found it easier to just stay with Victor.  He was intelligent, if a bit boring, he was good in bed”, (I am so proud of myself for not reacting at that), “not afraid to try different things and he didn’t mind joining me in getting high.” (I can’t stop the frown at that, no matter how hard I try.  But again, Sherlock ignores it and keeps talking.”

By two years of knowing each other we were completely exclusive.  Had been for almost a year.  That is when he decided to bring me home, for a weekend, to meet his parents.” Here, Sherlock stops to take a few slow breaths while he thinks about his next words and I can see that whatever it is he has to say is troubling him.  I bring my hand up and gently place in the centre of his chest, my fingers soothingly stroking up and down.  This seems to take away his agitation and he continues.

“While I was at his parents house I deduced that his father was involved in some dodgy, illegal enterprises and was having an affair with his secretary.”  Sherlocks eyes drop from mine and looks down at my wrist, almost as if he is ashamed of his own actions, although I am not sure why.  The man deduces peoples secrets on a daily basis, quite often gleefully.

“If I hadn’t been high I probably wouldn’t have announced it at the dining table over dinner.  The following week Victors father killed himself.  He couldn’t handle the shame of being outed as a criminal.  Apparently the secretary wasn’t a one off.  Victors mother and sister were furious.  Victor was told that I was never welcome back at their house and if he continued a relationship with me then he would not receive any support from them.”  
Sherlock goes quiet again.  I want to ask if that was what drove them away, but again, Sherlock continues his story.  “Three months later Victors mother had a nervous breakdown after their name had been ruined after her husbands shady business dealings came to light.  You need to understand, John, socialites depend greatly on the reputation of their own.  Mrs Trevor had no skill to speak of, other than knowing how to spend her husbands money.  When all of Mr Trevor’s dirty secrets came out there were law suits and the family lost, not only their reputation, but also most of their wealth.  She couldn’t handle it and tried to drown herself in a bottle of champaign and sleeping pills.”

It is now that Sherlock looks back up at me and my heart wants to break at the lost look in his eyes.  “It was after that that Victor broke it off with me. He told me that I was no good, that I just brought misery to those around me. I shouldn’t have cared.  He was just another person.  There were so many of them, I could have my pick of whoever I wanted, so that is what I did.  I got high and I went back to one night stands.

I want to pull Sherlock close to me and hold him and tell him that Victor was wrong, but I had a feeling that Sherlock wasn’t quite finished yet.

“When I heard him coming up the stairs tonight, before we went out, I wasn’t sure what to expect.  He had been so angry the last time that I saw him.  It wasn’t until he smiled at me, the way he used to, that I realised that everything was fine between us, and he had been a good friend to me back when I was still finding myself, that I didn’t want him to leave again.  At least, not straight away.  

“I’m sorry, it didn’t occur to me that you would find it so uncomfortable, and I don’t know what I was thinking, leaving you at the restaurant like that.  I was just caught up in Victor Trevor again.  It was sort of surreal.”

We lay in silence, Sherlock looking to me for some kind of reaction.  I frown, just a bit.  “What happened then?” I ask, still not sure why he had left the company of Victor Trevor at such an early hour.

Sherlock sighs, as if he is carrying a rather heavy weight.  “On the way to the club” he starts, his fingers fisting in my shirt as if holding me close and I am starting get a feeling of dread balling in my stomach.  “He was prattling on about the old days, going on about the things we would get up to.  I don’t know why, I was there for all of it, I remember all of it.  Then he brings up an old acquaintance of ours, a man going by the name of Westly.” Sherlock stops and swallows, hard and the ball of dread gets tighter.

“Westly was my regular drug dealer”he tells me, looking down at where his hand is clutching at my t-shirt.  I swallow and he continues.  “Apparently, Westly is still in business as Victor had paid him a visit earlier this afternoon.  As we are driving along Victor pulls out a bag of coke and asks if I want some, for old time sake.”

I want to ask Sherlock if he accepted but I need to also believe that he had the sense not to, so I wait for him to finish his story and I sigh in relief at his next words.

“I promise, I didn’t John.  And I told him that straight away.” By now he was looking up at me with pleading eyes, begging me to believe him, and I can’t stop myself from surging forward and kissing the man before me.  I would have continued kissing him too if he hadn’t pulled back and muttered something undecipherable.

“What was that?” I ask, my hand running down his stomach and then back up to his chest.

“Victor kissed me” he repeated, this time perfectly clear and maybe just a bit louder than necessary.  My hands stop the stroking of his chest and I just stare at him.  I think about his words.  ‘ _Victor_ kissed _me_.’  He hadn’t said that he had kissed Victor, he had said that _Victor_ had kissed _him_.

“He was trying to remind me of the good times" Sherlock said, rather quickly, as if he didn’t get it all out now I might get out of the bed and leave him forever, while his grip tighten even more on my top to the point that I thought it was going to tear.  

“I swear, that was all” Sherlock spat.  “ I pushed him away and told him that in no certain circumstances would I ever think about doing anything behind your back, nor was I planning on breaking off our relationship in the foreseeable future.  He made some disparaging comments about you and I told him that at least you didn’t need the help of medication to maintain an erection long enough to please your partners.  It was around then that I told the driver to pull over and I left Victor, alone in the cab, with a medically induced erection.”

I am relieved that the lost look had left Sherlocks face during that part of his speech and had been replaced with its usual arrogant satisfaction.

“A couple of quick phone calls to a few people on the way home, while I realised that Victor was right prat, and had in fact always been one, I was just too youthfully naive and high to notice it, and not only will tonights expenses be charged to his personal credit card, but there will also be an undercover police officer looking for someone of his description at the club which I am sure he will continue to visit as Victor was never a fan of wanking when he could get the real thing from another person.”

I can’t help but smile at the mad, wonderful man before me.  “You are brilliant” I tell him and then lean in to kiss him again.

“I am sorry I ruined your night” Sherlock mumbles against my lips, and I kiss him one more time.  

I roll onto my back and pull his head onto my shoulder and we assume our usual position of him draped over me.  

“It was fine.  The restaurant was probably a little bit too fancy for my liking anyway” I tell him and my hand strokes up and down his back.

“Did we go to that restaurant just so you could wear your suit?”and I can hear the absurdity of the idea in Sherlocks tone.

I grin against his hair.  “No you berk, I brought the suit so I wouldn’t look like a chav in the restaurant.  We went to the restaurant because someone recommended it to me and I wanted to try something new.”

“Oh John” Sherlock growls.  “If you want something new I have an entire list of things we can try.”

“Will they involve me removing my pyjamas?” I ask, a grin spreading across my mouth.

“I think you should stop asking inane questions and get to work on removing said pyjamas” Sherlock replies, pulling himself up off of my body and attaching his hands to the waistband of my pyjama pants.  “In fact, why don’t I help?”

It isn’t long before I am completely bare and listening to Sherlock describe something very new indeed.


	10. It Was Me That Threw Out Your Boiled Brain Stems, But I l Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Victor out of the way and an affirmation that John is most definitely the one for Sherlock, John thinks about putting his proposal plans back on track again, but they are once again halted when things go wrong on a case.

~~~~~~~~~~

Victor Trevor has been gone for two weeks and his name hasn’t been mentioned once since that last night and that is the way I plan on keeping it.

Things have gone back to the way they were.  Cases come and go.  Sherlock and I argue, laugh and enjoy each others silence.  

One thing that has changed is that the amount of sex we are having has gone back up to what it was when we first started this relationship, and while it is taking up quite a bit of our free (and sometimes not so free) time I can’t say that I am complaining.

Every now and then I think about the ring in the back of our sock drawer.  I am determined that I will ask him, sooner or later, but somehow it never seems quite right, so I push the thought aside and focus on something else.

Like right now, how Sherlocks tongue is doing something utterly fantastic to the underside of my cock and I couldn’t stop the moan tearing out of my chest if I had wanted to.

“Shhh” Sherlock hisses, removing his mouth from where it was doing such a wonderful job and I have to bite my lip to stop the whimper that wants to leave my mouth.

“That is, unless you want someone to hear you.”  I look down to the man on his knees at my feet and another whimper tries to escape at the cheeky grin on his face, the way his eyes are blown black and his cheeks are tinted pink.  With a lick to his lips he lowers his head and goes back to what he was doing, which was driving me absolutely insane.

We are on a case for crying out loud.  A fucking stakeout and here he is, sucking me off, practically around the corner from a couple of police officers that would love to see Sherlock, and possibly me, arrested for indecent exposure.

Sherlock had claimed, not ten minutes ago, that he and I had been watching the flat for long enough and were going to get coffee.  Donovan and Jamison should be capable of observing an abandoned building for any activity for ten or twenty minutes on their own and then had proceeded to grab me by the wrist and drag me away, down to the ground floor of the other abandoned building that we were sitting in.  Once in a small, out of the way room, he had pushed me against the wall and instantly dropped to his knees which led to me now biting down on the heel of my hand, trying not to shout out, as his fingers danced around my scrotum as his lips sucked the crown of my cock into his mouth.

God, I swear he gets better at his every time, and he was already fantastic at it.   

My head drops back to the wall behind me and I have to smother another groan as he hums while moving his mouth further down my length, the vibration of the action causing my balls to tighten just a bit more.  

“God, Sherlock” I gasp in as hushed tones as I can manage.  It is not going to take much longer and I let him know by gripping his shoulder, tightly.

He acknowledges the warning by picking up his pace and increasing his suction as he works his mouth over my cock, time and time again, his head bobbing back and forth in a perfect rhythm and soon my hips start thrusting, just a bit, while his tongue continues to work around my cock and it isn’t long before I have one hand in his hair, the other gripping his shoulder through his coat as I bite down, hard, on my lip trying not to make any noise as I finally release into Sherlocks mouth, unable to stop the gasped whimpers as he continues to suck and lick until all traces of my come have been eradicated.

I am pulled out of my blissful haze by the feel of Sherlocks mouth on mine, his tongue pushing past my lips to lick into my mouth and all I can taste is myself, and suddenly I want more.  With a practiced ease I push Sherlock around so he now has his back to the wall and I drop to my knees, wasting no time in opening his trousers and pulling them, along with his pants, down to his knees.

“John” he whispers huskily as, without any warning, I take the base of his cock into my hand and wrap my lips around the head.  Both of Sherlocks hands find the back of my head and I feel him pulling me closer, trying to get more of my mouth around his cock, and who am I to deny this man what he so very clearly wants.  I push my lips further down his erection, tasting the bitter pre-come as the head of his cock glides over my tongue and I suck.  A bitten off groan reaches my ears so I do it again, Sherlocks hips thrusting forward in response.  

My spare hand pushes between his legs and he widens his stance so I have more room to palm his balls as my mouth works over his prick, sucking and licking, adding the occasional drag of teeth.  Above me I can hear his breaths deepening and becoming more shallow while in front of me his hips start moving, just tiny thrusts back and forth and I know that he is not going to last much longer.  I want to grin at how quickly I brought him to the desperate, wanting mess that he is, but at the moment my mouth is a bit occupied so I decide to save it for later as I slide my hand, currently fondling his testicles, back a bit further, my middle finger coming to rest and applying pressure to his entrance, and a bitten off groan rumbles out from his chest as suddenly my mouth fills with the bitter taste of Sherlocks ejaculate.

“Johhhn” he moans lowly as his hips stutter a few more times, each burst of come becoming less and less until there is nothing left.  With a final suck I release his softening penis from my mouth and tuck him away, doing up his trousers and tucking his shirt back in.  I then stand up and tidy up my own clothing, making sure that nothing is open or exposed and then kiss a pleasantly blissed out Sherlock.  

“Best coffee I’ve ever had” I tell him, nuzzling into his neck.

“Mmm” is his response and I start to wonder if maybe having sex at a stakeout wasn’t such a good idea especially since, more often than not, orgasms put Sherlock into a lazy, even sleepy stupor and it has been at least two days since he last slept.

With a resigned sigh I step back and button up his coat and tighten his scarf.  “Come on Sleeping Beauty” I tell him, giving his hand an encouraging tug.  “Lets see if some fresh air will wake you up.  Can’t have you going back to Donovan looking so debauched” and reluctantly he follows me outside to do a lap of the building before heading back inside to keep a look out for a serial rapist.

~o~

I juggle the bags in my hand as I manoeuvre the key into the lock and finally get the door to the building open, sending out a silent thanks to whoever is in charge of this sort of shit for not dropping anything.  I  know that I could have rung the bell, but I also know that there would have been no answer.  Mrs Hudson is out playing bridge and when I had left, forty-five minutes ago, Sherlock had been deep in his mind palace rehashing over all of the facts concerning the case.  It had been two days since the stakeout which had entailed hours of surveillance revealing absolutely nothing.  It had been a complete waste of time.  Well, almost a complete waste of time I remind myself with a smug grin.  Either way, unless Sherlock had found something, he would still be wandering around in that head of his and the silence coming from the flat above me almost guarantees that he is still thinking about the case.

Shifting the bags so they are evenly distributed in both of my arms I make my way upstairs and am shocked to see that Sherlock is no longer sprawled out on the couch.  I am even more shocked to find him leaning next to the door frame casually reading over…  “That’s my birth certificate.” 

“Yep” comes the reply, him popping the _P_ casually as he pushes off the wall, folding the piece of paper in his hand and placing it on the desk on the other side of the room.

As the confusion drifts away from my mind I chuckle as I head towards the kitchen.

“What?” Sherlock asks, almost sounding annoyed.

“You” I answer with a grin, my back to him as I empty the bags onto a surprisingly almost clear kitchen table.  “You actually couldn’t guess my middle name.  Tell me, did you have to go to Mycroft to get that” and my I look over my shoulder at the birth certificate.

“Well, it’s not like you gave me any clues” he snapped sulkily, folding himself into his chair with his arms wrapped around his knees, confirming that, yes, he had gone to Mycroft to get a hold of my birth certificate.

I put the milk in the fridge and make my way over to him, slowly sinking to my knees in front of him.

“My last name is Watson” I explain carefully pulling his hands away from his legs and placing them on the arms of the chair.  “You know my grandparents were from Scotland, as you found a picture of me in my kilt when I was eight and had me explain the whole thing” I further tell him as I pull each leg down, one at a time, so his feet are resting on the floor, one each side of my thighs, instead of on the seat of the chair, “And you knew it started with a H.  My parents were horribly traditional and not one for using their imagination, a perfect example being my first name.  Was it really so hard to guess?” I ask and pull him down gently so I can press my lips against his.  After half a second of deciding whether to continue his sulk or go along with the kiss he decides to go along with it and kisses me back.

“Sometimes, John _Hamish_ Watson, you make me not work properly” he tells me quietly and I can’t help but grin at what I am going to take as probably the biggest compliment he has ever given me.

“Stop smiling” he frowns, leaning in for another kiss, and I smile against his lips.  

“Never” I mumble and lean in closer, resting my hands on the tops of his thighs.

The kiss is just starting to heat up when Sherlocks text alert loudly beeps, startling me and pulling an impatient sigh out of him.

The annoyed look that had graced his face leaves as he reads the message.  “Grab your coat, John.  They have located the suspect.”

~o~

An hour later we find ourselves at an abandoned warehouse (again, seriously, can the criminal class not be so bloody unoriginal for once) where we had chased Bailey Stevens halfway round bloody London.  

For once, Sherlock had actually listened and threw Greg a text message before deciding to not wait for back up but to follow the serial rapist inside the building which naturally led to me following him in as well.

The place is dark and damp.  Somewhere, there is a steady drip of water, the only sound over our quiet breathing and in the dim light I can make out Sherlock as he tilts his head listening for any indication of where Stevens might have hidden.

After  a few moments there is a light bang, followed by a whispered “ _fuck_ ” somewhere further back in the warehouse, where the offices would have been situated had this place been up and running.

I look to Sherlock who points, silently, in the direction of the door on the right, indicating that I should go that way, and gestures with his head that he will go the other way.  I can see his logic.  We will be covering the only two entrances leading into the office that Stevens had stupidly run into, looking for somewhere to hide.  I nod to indicate that I understand and silently move around the corner towards the door, Sherlock mirroring my action, sans gun held at the ready, in the opposite direction.

As I near the door I can hear nervous shuffling and quiet, desperate chants of ‘ _fuck, fuck, fuck_ ’ as the man we are currently chasing, and closing in on, frantically tries to find a way out of his predicament.  Just as I reach the half open door the small room before me goes silent.  I hold my breath thinking that Stevens has heard me but then I hear a couple of shuffled footsteps moving away from me.  I raise my gun and silently step into the room.  I am about to tell Stevens to drop his weapon but then he fires.  

For half a second my heart lodges itself in my throat thinking that he had seen Sherlock, because at such a close range as what Sherlock would surely be by now, it would be almost impossible for Stevens to miss his target.  My heart returns to my chest when I hear a _ping_ of the bullet hit metal.  _Almost impossible_ I tell myself again, quickly stepping forward and wrapping the butt of my gun across the part of Stevens head that I know will bring him down like a sack of bricks.  And it does.  The man drops to the ground and I don’t even wince at the dull _thunk_ of his head hitting the concrete floor.  Without another word I kneel down next to him, pulling zip ties out of my pocket.  “Thats for sending us on a three day chase, ruining my plans once again” I tell the unconscious form.  “This” I say, pulling the ties probably a little bit tighter than necessary, “is for trying to shoot my partner.”

It is then that Sherlock makes his presence known and the sound he makes sends ice through my veins.

It is a groan, but not a tired sort of groan.  It is pained, and followed by a rather audible gasp.

“John?” I hear him call out and without further thought I push myself off of Stevens’ back and go out the opposite door to what I had entered, only to find Sherlock, laying on his side, his body rigid, his hand pressing on his abdomen.

I don’t remember going to him, but I find myself, kneeling in front of him, moving his hand away from his side and seeing dark blood on his hand.

Fuck.  Either Sherlocks coat is actually lined with metal (and not the bullet proof kind, either) or, more likely, the bullet fucking ricocheted off of whatever it had originally hit and caught him anyways. 

In the dim light filtering through the grimy windows I can see the colour leaching out of Sherlocks face, along with the fine sheen of sweat coating his upper lip and brow.  Pushing the rising panic back down I push Sherlock gently on his back and pull his coat and jacket aside, untucking his shirt from his pants  in order to be able to see the wound that is currently issuing an unsettling amount of blood.  

“John” Sherlock groans as I assess the wound and some of the fear leaves me.  The bullet passed through the front of his torso, but quite close to the edge.  A centimetre or two to the right and it would have only have been a graze.  Any closer to the left…

I am not going to think about could have beens.  Instead I pull my phone out of my pocket to call an ambulance as I tell Sherlock to “Lay still.  You’re going to be fine.”

Just as I hit the first 9 my phone rings, Greg’s name coming up on the screen.  “Is Sherlock with you?” is the exasperated greeting that I get.  

I ignore him.  “Sherlock’s been shot” I tell him instead.  “I need an ambulance, now” I bark out the address and hang up so I can focus on the man on the floor, worried that his breaths are coming a bit too shallow for my liking.  He is going into shock.

“John…” he says again but I am busy trying to staunch the bleeding using his scarf.  

“Sorry Sherlock” I mutter as I gently place my hand under his body.  He hisses in pain at the movement but I really need to feel if the bullet has passed all the way through, and it is either this or rolling him.  I sigh in relief when I don’t find an exit wound and gently settle him back, aware now that there is a bullet, that could quite easily shift from wherever it is lodged, inside Sherlocks body.

Just then Sherlock makes a move as if to try and sit up, only to cry out in pain again.  “Sherlock, you need to keep still.  The ambulance will be here soon, but I need you to not move.  The bullet is still lodged inside you and the more you move the more you risk dislodging it.  It will also increase your blood flow, and I am currently trying to stop that from happening.”  
Sherlock just shakes his head and I ignore the way that his face has gone from white to grey.  

“Really hurts” he gasps.  I feel a weary smile on my face.  

“That’s what happens when you get shot, love” I tell him, readjusting the pressure I am applying to the wound, but the scarf is now completely soaked in blood.  

As I remove my jumper and use it to replace the scarf a low, pained groan followed by “ _fucking hell, my head_ ” sounds from behind me.

“I suggest you stop making any noise right now, lest you want a fucking dislocated shoulder to go with that headache” I growl behind me and then turn my attention back Sherlock.  All falls silent behind us again.

“John” Sherlock groans weakly.  I bring my free hand up to cup his cheek, his blood smearing across the cool, clammy skin.  “John” he repeats and I watch as he struggles to keep his eyes open. He tries to raise his arm towards me as he rasps out “I lo….”

“Stop right there” I command, the fear suddenly turning into anger.  “Whatever you think you are about to say, stop it.  You are not dying, Sherlock Holmes.  Trust me.  I’m a doctor.   You’re in pain, and yes, you have lost quite a lot of blood, but you are too bloody pig-headed to let something as simple as a fucking bullet in a dirty warehouse end your life, so stop being a drama queen, lay there quietly and stop moving and wait, _patiently for once in your life_ , for the fucking ambulance to arrive, which should be any time now.”

I know what Sherlock was about to say.  I had heard him say it once, and while during our relationship I had hoped to hear it more often, it was not going to be like this.  It was not going to be what Sherlock thought was going to be his last words to me, because that was never going to happen.  Not today anyway.  Today he was going to survive

It is then that I hear multiple sets of sirens nearing us.  In under a minute the warehouse is filling with people.  

“In here” I call, alerting whoever is there to our location.  “The back office” I clarify.

“Just a bit longer, Sherlock” I lean down and whisper to the barely conscious man as I hear people enter the room behind me. 

“Fucking hell” I hear Donovan mutter.  “Freak’s okay, yeah?”  

Despite her words, I don’t miss the concern in her voice.  “Please tell me there is an ambulance” I reply.

The response I get is Donovan calling back down the way she came.  “Down here, boys.”

Before long I am being pushed out of the way as two EMT’s load Sherlock onto a stretcher.  I follow them out of the warehouse, rattling off Sherlocks wounds and observed stats as I climb into the back of the ambulance, ignoring the “you can’t ride in the ambulance, sir” from the guy locking the stretcher into place.  

Obviously deciding that arguing the point was not worth the time or the effort, he pays me no mind as the ambulance takes off and heads towards the hospital.  The whole way I run my hand through Sherlocks hair as the medic works on keeping as much blood in Sherlocks body as possible, not that Sherlock would know.  He lost consciousness just after Donovan entered the room, back at the warehouse.

Once we reach the hospital me and Sherlock are separated, a burly looking nurse stepping in front of me with a threatening glare as the stretcher carrying Sherlock is wheeled away.

Now all that is left to do is wait.

An hour later there is still no word from the surgical team, but I hadn’t expected it.  It would take a while looking for the bullet, and that is if it didn’t break into pieces.  They would also need to check for any small nicks and lacerations.  There would be scans and x-rays, not to mention the actual surgical procedure itself.  I had performed this exact surgery so many times I could do it in my sleep, but never had the end result been so vital.  I know I should feel guilty in valuing one life over the many others that have been through the same, if not worse, trauma, but this is Sherlock we are talking about.  He needs to survive.  I need him to survive.  It is as simple as that.

Mycroft has message twice.  Once, not long after Sherlock had been wheeled away to inquire about his condition and a request to be kept updated.  The second time was half an hour ago to inform me that I had been listed as Sherlocks next of kin and should have no problems accessing visitational rights or access to Sherlocks medical records.  At that moment in time Mycroft had been my hero.  I would have offer him anything he wanted of me for that one small gift, that neither me or Sherlock had considered, despite the amount of times we have been injured.

I am pulled out of my thoughts by someone walking up to stand next to me.  I look up, hoping it is the surgeon, only to find Greg looking down at me with a two cups of coffee in his hand.

“Thanks” I say, taking the proffered cup as he sinks down next to me.

“He’ll be fine” Greg reassures me, and I nod because I have to believe that.

After a while of comfortable, yet stressed silence, greg speaks.  “Bailey Stevens is being charged on multiple counts of rape and sexual assault, three counts of aggravated assault,  two counts of trespassing and one count of attempted murder.  We are pretty sure all charges will stick.”

Gregs words sink in.  The bastard that shot Sherlock will be spending quite a bit of time behind bars.  He will probably be safer there.  Mind you, not even the bars of Pentonville Prison can keep anyone safe from Mycroft Holmes, and if on the odd chance that Sherlock doesn’t pull through then Bailey Stevens is going to wish that he had never been born, regardless of the highly guarded and well locked cell that he is currently residing in.

Greg stays with me.  We mostly sit in silence, every now and then one of us breaking the silence with some inane comment or another.  Something about last nights game, or a comment on the person who was just admitted through the doors across the room.

Three hours later and three more cups of coffee and finally the doors open and a man in green scrubs heads towards us.  

“Mr Watson?” he enquires looking between both myself and Greg.

"Dr Watson” I correct, standing up.  The surgeon looks to me.  

“Mr Holmes is out of Surgery, you will be able to see him shortly” he tells me, using a familiar tone that I have used many times to sooth nervous, tense family members.  It is a relief to hear.  He wasn’t preparing me for bad news.  The doctor goes on to tell me that the bullet was found in tack and that minimal damage had been done.  It had nicked a rib, breaking off bits of bone and grazed the liver, but no permanent damage had been sustained.  They were sure that he would pull through with a full recovery.  It was more damage than I had predicted, but a lot less than what it could have been.  I thank the doctor and turn to Greg.  

“Go” he tells me before I can even open my mouth.  “I’ll let his brother know.”

I nod my thanks and quickly scurry after the surgeon.  I enter the room just as Sherlock is being wheeled in.  I stand back as the nurses arrange all the equipment, making sure everything is connected where it should be.  When we are alone in the room I take a seat next to the bed and reach out, clasping Sherlocks hand in mine.  He is cold.  Not freezing, but cool.  And pale.  There is the tip of a gauze dressing peeking out from under the edge of the blanket, covering the wound caused by the bullet and the following surgery.  The saline drip running into Sherlocks arm is no doubt infused with antibiotics, the morphine drip tipped up as far as it can go.  Hanging on the lower rail of the bed is a catheter bag and the heart monitor beeps strong and steadily in the otherwise silent room.

Sherlocks face is pale, but at least no longer grey.  There are dark half circles under his eyes and his lips are dry.  I note a small smear of blood, just under his ear, from where I had caressed his cheek earlier.  It had been missed when the nurses had cleaned him up.

I sit in the semi darkened room, holding Sherlocks hand.  I tell him about the charges against Stevens.  I tell him how his brother has been surprisingly helpful.  I tell him that when he is better we are going to go out and have that dinner with no fucking interruptions.  No old friends, no cases, no experiments.  Just me and him, because I have something important to ask him.  I tell him that it was actually me that threw out his boiled brain stems.  I tell him that Greg finally left his wife for good and then lecture him on how Greg’s name is actually very simple to remember and he should probably make more of an effort to do so as I am pretty sure there was something going on between him and Mycroft.  I tell him that I love him and then I tell him that he can never do this again, because today was too close and throughout it all he lays there.  Sometimes a small murmur or my name leaves his mouth and sometimes he twitches, but other than that he is silent, but it is okay, because he is alive, and I can’t ask for any more than that.


	11. I'll Get Rid Of The Arachnid In The Fridge If You Ask Me To Marry You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a camel spider in the fridge, proposals are made and proposals are accepted.

~~~~~~~~~~

Today was a shit day.  Today was horrendous.  I never thought today was going to end.  And the worst part is that nothing particularly note worthy happened.  There was a stream of immunisations and I was bitten by a three year old and an eight year old.  A young lad, clearly high on we still don’t know what, threw up on my shoes, and the only reason it wasn’t any worse was because I had the good fortune to roll my chair back at the last minute.  Two doctors and a nurse went home sick just after lunch and I, for some stupid reason, volunteered to go to a 5 day conference in Edinburgh in a month.  And those were just the highlights of my day.

I stomp up the stairs, enjoying the idea of curling up on the couch with Sherlock and not doing anything at all.  My feet sweating in my shoes, as I had to remove and dispose of my socks after they got a healthy dose of junky vomit on them, and the leather of my shoes was still damp from where I had had to rinse them off.  I had message Sherlock to bring me down a fresh pair of shoes and socks, but I hadn’t held my breath for a response, let alone an acquiescence to my request.

When I get to the living room Sherlock is sitting in his chair, hands steepled under his chin, non responsive.  Thinking, then. 

I kick of my shoes and make my way to the bathroom to use the toilet.  When I come back out Sherlock is by the front door, swinging his coat on in that overly dramatic way that suits him so well.

“Heading out?” I ask, even though it is blatantly obvious that, yes, that is exactly what he is doing.

“I need to think” is his short reply before turning around and heading down the stairs.

A slow huff of air forces it’s way out of my lungs.  So much for curling up on the couch.

I make my way to the kitchen and put the kettle on.  It has been seven weeks since Sherlock was shot.  Seven weeks and two lots of antibiotics later.  It would have only been one lot of antibiotics but the idiot had gone and spent a day trawling through bins, searching for evidence in what was supposed to have been an open and shut case that wouldn’t see Sherlock leaving the flat.  When I had changed the dressing that night it had been brown, so another course of antibiotics it was.

I fill my mug up with boiling water and go to get the milk while my tea bag steeps, only the sight that I am greeted with scares the shit out of me and with a rather unmanly shriek I slam the fridge shut and scurry as far away as possible, only stopping when my back hits the table.

I take a few steadying breaths and then move towards the fridge again.  With deep, calming breaths and a shaky hand I reach out and grasp the handle of the fridge, slowly opening the door.

Again I jump back, though not as violently this time, and this time I don’t scream like a girl, but it is still there, right next to the milk.  Tanned, hairy and fucking ugly, not to mention huge.  Larger than normal.  This one is close to seven inches, surely.  It’s jaws are open as if it is ready to attack.  Where the fuck he got this specimen, I don’t know nor do I care, but there it is.  In our fridge.  Right next to our milk.  

Despite clearly being dead I can’t bring myself to reach past the camel spider to get the milk, even though I do try - three times.  In the end I close the door and resign myself to the fact that until Sherlock comes home I will just have to drink black tea, as Mrs Hudson is out of town for the upcoming weekend so I can’t even go down and borrow some from her milk, and damned if I am doing a Tesco run now.

I pull the tea bag out of my mug and throw it in the sink before padding into the living room and sink down into my chair.  An involuntary groan leaves my mouth as I do so.  I wince at the bitter taste of over steeped and unsweetened black tea, but ignore it in favour of not having to open the fridge again.  That thought gets me thinking about Sherlock.  He has been quiet this last week.  He is getting bored, restless, but after the fit I had practically thrown after he had gone traipsing through rubbish bins he had been careful not to push himself too far again.  I know it isn’t for his own benefit.  He is doing it to keep me happy, but he is miserable.  He wants to be out doing things again, not just  _the Yards paper work_ as he calls it - the small desk cases that Greg could probably have solved on his own, but had hand balled them over to Sherlock in the hopes of appeasing his boredom, even if just minutely.  But somehow, since I left for work this morning, he has acquired a rather impressive spider camel spider and I can’t help but think that somehow I am being punished.  I have told him horror stories of finding those bastards in helmets and back packs, once in my sleeping bag (courtesy of Bill fucking Murray) and even once in the chest cavity of a long dead civilian that we had found on a routine patrol.  Although not poisonous the little fuckers can leave a nasty bite and while I have never received one, I have treated plenty. They are scary bastard insects (sorry…arachnids) and I hate them….a lot.  And I have informed Sherlock of this.  So why he has felt the need to place one in our fridge, right next to the milk, and then leave me alone to find it the way I did, is beyond me. All I can say is that I will be having words with him when he gets home.  

But before then, I need a shower.  I wrinkle my nose as I smell the faint scent of vomit.  I was sure none of it had got on me (apart from my shoes and socks) but all the same, the smell clings and lingers. 

Before I hop in the shower I ring up for an order of Chinese, because getting ingredients out of the fridge in order to make a meal is just not going to happen, that and I really can’t be bothered cooking.

By the time I get out of the shower Sherlock is still not home, but apparently our dinner is.  I quickly throw on my pyjama pants and pull on a t-shirt as I make my way down stairs to collect my meal.

By the time I have eaten and made myself another cup of black tea Sherlock still isn’t back.  The left overs are sitting, still in their cartons, on the table, because I am not opening the fridge to try and squeeze them in.  I am starting to worry and am deciding if I should message him or not when I hear the door downstairs open and familiar footsteps make their way up to our apartment.

“I was starting to think that you had run away” I say, stretching my legs out, beating the cramp that is trying to make itself home in my leg from being in the same position for too long.

There is no answer from behind me.  Instead Sherlock walks to stand in front of my chair,  and drops to his knees, between my legs.

“I love you, John” he tells me and suddenly everything goes quiet.  Goes still.  All I can hear is my suddenly slow breathing and the erratic pulse of my blood pumping through my body.

Something is wrong.  Sherlock never says that.  Not since our first night together, and that almost time when he was shot.  

He takes his hands in mine, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles.  “I don’t ever tell you.  I mean to, but somehow I never get around to it.  But it is always there.  When I smile at you and touch you.  When I kiss you, after you tell me.  As I hold you when you sleep at night.  It is always there, but I never think to tell you.  But I do.  I love you.  And it scares me because I don’t know if I will ever be able to tell you, or show, just how much I do love you, but I do.”

I look down at my smaller hands in his larger ones, watching the hypnotic movement of his thumb gently moving back and forth over my knuckles.  I don’t know what to say.  Well, I do, I need to tell him that I love him too, but I just don’t know how to utter three simple words that I have told him countless times.  How can I compete with what he just said?

The decision is taken away from me when Sherlock leans forward and gently places his lips on mine.  It is not a heated kiss full of passion, but it is quite possibly one of the most intimate moments shared between us.  I pull one of my hands free and place it on the back of his neck, my fingers gently twirling the curls there.

Eventually Sherlock pulls back.  “You’ve been drinking black tea” he states.  Not exactly what I was expecting but it does bring my attention back to my original grouse with the stunning, extraordinary, wonderful man before me.  “I know there is milk.  Mrs Hudson brought it just this morning, before she left to go to her sisters.”

“Yes” I reply with a pointed look towards the man who apparently really does love me, and I can’t keep at least a small smile from pulling the corners of my mouth up.  “And to get to the milk I have to move a great big fucking camel spider.  No matter how much I like milk in my tea, that was just not going to happen.”

“I’ll make you a deal” Sherlock offers and I am somewhat surprised as he very rarely makes negotiations.

“I’m listening” I murmur somewhat suspiciously.  There is bound to be some stipulation or bizarre loophole coming up.

Sherlock removes his hand from my lap to pull something out of his pocket.  “I’ll get the arachnid out of the fridge if you ask me to marry you” and at that he pushes a small hard box into my hand.

I don’t look down at the familiar black leather box in my hand instead swallowing the knot that has lodged itself in my throat.  This box is familiar to me not only by sight, but also by touch.  I have held this box in my hands and run my fingers over the edges and corners so many times that small wear marks have appeared.  I have opened and closed it so often that I have memorised the soft click it makes during those actions.  I know exactly what is inside this box so well that I don’t need to open it to be able to see it’s contents with perfect clarity.

“How…when….” I stutter.  This isn’t how it was going to happen.  This box had been hidden in the ugly pair of cheap brown socks in my drawer.  The pair that had been pushed down to the bottom, lost amongst more savourable items of hosiery.  It wasn’t meant to have been found, but then again I never had been able to keep anything from this man.

“I was looking for some poor quality wool to test the effects of clutch fluid on and I knew that you never wore these socks because they are horribly itchy so I figured you wouldn’t mind, only when I picked them up they were heavier than I anticipated.

“I almost put them back, honestly, but you know me…obsessively curious” I can’t stop the huff of laughter at that description, but Sherlock pays it no attention and continues.  “At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.  Why would you have a wedding ring.  I wanted to know who had given it to you and why you had kept it.  Then I had a good look at it and realised that it would be too small for your finger, but it would fit my finger perfectly and then that set my mind into a whirlwind of different confusing thoughts and a multitude of questions.  The main one being, _why_ would you want to marry me?

“I needed time to think so when I heard you come home from work I needed to get out of the flat for a bit.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to worry you.  I just….”

I cut him off by placing my lips against his.  This stupid, ridiculous amazing man.  

“You” I tell him with a shaky voice. “It was always you and it will always be you, because you are brilliant, and mad, and wonderful and the perfect half to me.  _That’s_ why I would want to marry you!“

Sherlock looks at me and the expression in his eyes almost breaks my heart as I realise that this whole time he never really believed that he was worth committing a life time to.  That is something I plan on putting a stop to right now.

“Sherlock Holmes” I say taking the ring out of the box.  “Would you do me the honour of removing the arachnid from the fridge?” and gently, I slide the ring onto the appropriate digit.

The smile that lights up the man’s face is more of an answer than any words could communicate.  I soon find two large hands on either side of my head as Sherlock rests his forehead against mine.  “Oh God, yes!”  The phrase isn’t lost on me.  It is the three words I uttered that consented to our first adventure together.  It was, in a way, the phrase that had cemented and started the bonding process of our relationship.  It was the beginning of Sherlock and me.  Now the bond is complete.

Sherlock brings his lips to mine and the kiss is nothing resembling the sweet, chaste one from before.  This one is heated and messy and soon turns into teeth nipping and biting at lips and chins and necks.

I am vaguely aware of Sherlock tugging on the bottom of my t-shirt but it doesn’t register that he is trying to get it off until we are being pulled apart by it coming up between us and being pulled over my head.  It is dropped to the side somewhere, forgotten as soon as it hits the ground.  

There is barely two seconds that Sherlocks lips are not on mine, his tongue pushing back into my mouth.  My hands go up to his shoulders and push his coat and jacket off in one go before my fingers start clumsily plucking at his shirt buttons.  They go from unbuttoning to grasping onto the smooth fabric as Sherlocks hand reaches between my legs and starts palming my half hard cock and I inhale sharply as I bite down on his bottom lip.

With a small hiss Sherlock pulls his mouth away from mine, kissing his way along my jaw to my ear.  “If you have no objections, I would like to suggest that we move this to the bedroom” says Sherlock as his lips take the lobe of my ear into his mouth and sucks.

“No objections here” I manage to get out pushing up into the hand that is currently cupping the bulge in my pyjama bottoms and together we manage to make it out of the chair and into the bedroom, stumbling and stopping for gropes and kisses along the way.

Once in the bedroom, undressed and lying together on the bed the intense fire that was burning through us is now reduced to glowing embers.  Tamer, but no less as hot.

Sherlocks body cages mine, his face hovering inches over my own and he takes a few moments to just look, his eyes constantly roving over my features.  “Amazing” he murmurs as his eyes lock onto mine and I can’t help the smile on my lips.

“That’s my line” I tell him, unable to tear my gaze away from his.

His own mouth cocks up into a grin.  “I’m stealing it” he tells me and brings his mouth back down onto mine.

The kiss is a slow push of lips, gasping of breath and dancing of tongues.  Hands slowly explore familiar territories, roving over chests and shoulders, down spines and over backsides, caressing hips and jaws and cheeks and tangling in curls and for an eternity we are happy to stay like that, to continue what we are doing until Sherlock lowers his body down those last couple of inches and then the game changes.  

As his hips press down on mine I gasp as I feel my cock push up next to his, not touching, but close.  Slowly I thrust my hips forward and to the side, revelling in the gasp that is pulled from Sherlock as our erections slide together.  

“John” he whispers and I do it again. He keeps his hands bracketed next to my shoulders, his forehead resting on my shoulders and just feels as I slowly slide our bodies against each other, soft moans escaping his lips every now and then.  My hands move from where they are placed on his shoulder blades and glide down his back and over the swell of his arse where I leave them and grip hard.  This results in Sherlock thrusting forward as I thrust up and with an almost pained gasp his head falls back between his shoulders and his hips pick up a rhythm, encouraging my hips to pick up to keep in time with his.

As good as it all feels I need more as the familiar feeling in my lower abdomen grows and tightens.  Removing my left hand from Sherlocks arse I bring it between our bodies and wrap it around our cocks, increasing the pressure and at the same time both of us moan, Sherlocks face turning into my neck and he starts to bite and suck at the skin, his hips thrusting just that bit harder.

My hand stroke the both of us in a slow, lazy rhythm, wanting this to last, not wanting it to be over too soon and Sherlock seems to get the hint as he lessens the thrusting of his hips to match the movement of my hand but as impatient as he is the slow, steady rhythm does not last long and soon his hand joins mine and the pace of our strokes picks up as well as the pressure of our hands increasing.  Sherlocks breaths start to come harder and shorter and I in turn feel my own breathing becoming more shallow.  Between grunts and moans we each gasp each others names and as our hands and hips become uncoordinated Sherlock lowers his mouth to mine one last time and my restraint breaks.  With a cry into his mouth, I buck up towards Sherlock and  spill over our hands and onto my stomach.  As my hips stutter, each releasing a new, but lesser wave of come Sherlock lets out a desperate whimper and I feel his own ejaculate join mine before his lips push onto mine in a hard and bruising kiss, only for it to soften as his hand loosens around mine and his body slumps onto mine.  I return the kiss, still not wanting this to be over just yet.

For a while we lay like that, together, hardly moving, lips placing small, chaste, closed mouthed kisses wherever they can reach without actually moving our heads too much.  Sherlocks hands find mine and he threads his longer fingers though my shorter ones and I can’t stop the smile of pure joy when I feel the band on his left hand, my own ring finger running over the warm metal.

“I will have to find you one to compliment mine” Sherlock tells me as his own finger runs over my bare one.

“So you don’t want matching ones” I ask, already anticipating the half mortified glare before it is even directed at me.

“Clearly, you have gone out of your way to find a ring that was specifically suited to me.  It is only fair that I return the sentiment, plus, yellow gold would suit your complexion much better than white gold that this ring is made of.  How many shops did you actually visit before finding this one?” 

“At least seven more than I had previously entered my entire life” I tell him as he shifts off of me, rolling towards the edge of the bed.  “I will let you in on a little tip to save you a hell of a lot of leg work.”  I make a huff of mild, half-hearted frustration as Sherlock comes back with _my_ shirt to wipe the come off of my stomach before cleaning off our hands and I actually contemplate not giving him any help at all, but then he drapes himself around my body and places a gentle kiss on my shoulder.

“Mmm?” he asks, sounding sleepy and I can’t help but grin fondly as I place a kiss on the top of his head.  “What is this little tip?” he asks.

“In Hounslow there is a little Croatian jeweller.  They, as far as I found, have the best selection.”

Sherlock lets out another hum and pulls me closer by sliding his leg over my thigh and tightening his grip on my rib cage with his hand.  “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind” he tells me sleepily and before long his breathing turns into little huffs which then turn into the small snores that he apparently does not do and I smile as I fall asleep with my _fiancé’_ wrapped in my arms.


	12. The Sweet Nectar of an Orbiting Ball of Rock.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are married, this is their sex holiday, I mean, honeymoon!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the final chapter - finally! It is not a very long chapter, just something to wrap everything up in a nice little package, topped with a big sexy bow.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has followed this story, and the one before it and thank you all for leaving kudoses and comments and bookmarks and subscriptions, and all the rest. You are all too fabulous for words and I love you all a great big bloody bunch!
> 
> Hugs and Jaffa Cakes to you all as I present to you a chapter of warm, fluffy smut!

~~~~~~~~~~

I sit on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a rather soft and ridiculously fluffy robe, listening to the woman on the other end of the phone run over her lecture for the third time and I nod in agreeance, even though I know she can’t see the gesture.  Just like she can’t see the pained look that is a mixture between horrified and pure frustration that is on my face.

“Yes Miss, I completely understand” I tell her.  Again.  “Yes, I agree.  Not at all acceptable…No…It won’t happen again, I can give you my word…..Eighteen, you say….Oh, God…I am so sorry….Yes….I will be sure to pass the message on….Again, I am sorry….I understand.  Thank you.”

I place the phone back in it’s cradle and run my hand over my face, exasperated.  Not even three hours into the honeymoon and I am exasperated.  Why am I not surprised?

Behind me I can hear Sherlock picking at the random fruits that are on the tray, now balancing on the mattress between us.  The fruit that he had phoned for and had had delivered while I was enjoying a soak in the tub that was almost as big as our bathroom back home.  The tub that Sherlock had removed himself from after another spectacular orgasm, placing a gentle kiss to the top of my head and telling me to continue relaxing while he organised something for us to eat.

I had been so relaxed that I hadn’t seen how that simple gesture, the kind that many _non-geniuses_ carry out everyday with no drama, could have gone wrong.  I had been so relaxed that I hadn’t heard any commotion happening in the front room, even if there was a bedroom and two closed doors separating us.  

I had been so relaxed that it hadn’t occurred to me that never, since I had met Sherlock, had a 24 hour period passed when something not quite normal didn’t happen, and the fact that I didn’t class that I had just married a man as not quite normal truly tells the twist my life has taken.

So I really wasn’t surprised at the phone call I had just taken from the hotel manager.

“Sherlock” I ask, propping my chin in my hand and stare at the wall in front of me.

“Hmm?” Is the only response I get.  That bastard.  He knows exactly what I am going to ask, yet he is going to make me ask it any way.

“Did you answer the door to our room service attendant completely starkers?”  I envision Sherlock, opening the door wide in all his naked glory, not one ounce of self insecurity about him, stepping back and ushering the girl in with a wide sweep of his arm, opening his naked body up even more, directing her where to put the tray in the room, completely oblivious to how uncomfortable the young girl must have been. 

“Mmm” is his response, and then, “You should try this pineapple John, it is rather quite sweet.  I think you will really enjoy it.”

I ignore the comment about the pineapple and bury my face back in my hands.  “That was the hotel manager on the phone” I tell him, although I am sure he is quite aware of the fact.  He confirms this with his next comment.

“Mmm, I gathered as much.  You should have commended her on their exemplary fruit platter….she may not have yelled as much.”

A strained chuckle leaves my mouth as I rationalise, and not for the first time, that this is my life now.  “Sherlock, she threatened to throw us out.  She doesn’t care how much we are paying for the room, that was not acceptable behaviour and I really have to agree with her.”

I can practically hear the pout as Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest.  “It’s just skin, John.”

“Yeah, and a penis, a rather impressive one at that.  The poor girl was only eighteen and rather shaken up by the experience.  The manager had to let her go home early for crying out loud.”

I hear the tray of food being transferred to the bedside table and then feel the mattress dip and roll behind me and soon there are two long arms snaking around my shoulders.

“You think my penis is impressive?”  I can hear the smug grin as he nuzzles up against my neck and starts nipping at the skin just below my ear.

I can’t help my own grin as a tilt my head to give him more access.  “You know it’s impressive, don’t change the subject.”

“Fine, yes, I answered the door wearing nothing, but that girl was in no way traumatised.  Trust me when I tell you, she knew exactly where to look and there was nothing blushing nor innocent about her.”  There is also nothing innocent about the way Sherlock’s cock is pressing into my back as he slowly undulates his hips against my body.

“But…but the manager said…”Just then Sherlock pulls my earlobe between his lips and sucks, the rest of the sentence is forgotten.

“She used it as an excuse to skive off work” he rumbles as his hand travels down from my chest, over the material of my robe to rest over my rapidly stiffening cock.  “She actually grinned as she took in the view” he growls, his teeth tugging on my ear.  “She even offered _extra services_ should my _wife_ get too boring.”

At this a growl leaves my throat.  Sherlock is mine.  There is now a ring on his finger to prove that.  Nobody gets to look at him, no one gets to proposition him and no one gets to touch him.

“So, should we stop discussing this now so you can prove all the ways that I am _not_ going to get bored with you, after all, isn’t that the whole point of a sex holiday?” 

“It’s called a Honeymoon” I tell him, again, turning around and pushing him back on the mattress.

“That is a ridiculous name”  he replies.  “What we are doing has nothing to do with Sweet Nectar or an Orbiting Ball of Rock.  It s a holiday with a lot of sex, therefore, a sex holiday.”

I push him up, encouraging him to scoot up the bed and he does, and while he does I untie my robe and shrug out of it before crawling up the bed.  “Well then” I tell him, straddling his hips, “I guess we had better have sex, lest it become just a holiday.”

“Now that would be a crying shame” Sherlock replies with a glint in his eyes.  “What do you propose?”

“I want you to fuck me” I whisper huskily before leaning down and licking his bottom lip.  It tastes sweet, like pineapple.  A deep growl rumbles through Sherlocks chest as he chases my tongue with his mouth, catching it and sucking it into his mouth.

We kiss. And kiss, and keep kissing, getting deeper and hotter and messier, my hands in Sherlocks hair while his hands are anywhere and everywhere they can reach.  Eventually his hand leaves from where it was clutching at my hip and fumbles around on top of the bedside table until it comes across what it was looking for.  Without breaking away from the kiss, Sherlock manages to open the lube and squeeze some onto his hand.  

“How?” he manages to huff out before attacking my mouth with his again.

“Like this” I tell him, pulling my face away from his for only as long as it takes to utter those two words and Sherlock wastes no more time.  Instantly there is a finger pushing against my entrance and a gasp leaves my mouth as it glides all the way in, before pulling out again.  Sherlock keeps this motion up, in and out, occasionally circling it around inside of me and it is clearly not enough.  

“More!” I tell him, biting onto his bottom lip and he obeys, pushing a second finger in with the first, moving slowly, in and out, scissoring his fingers to stretch me open wider.

I use my arms to push up, so I am leaning, with bracketed arms on his chest while I push my hips down, trying to take more of him and he sees this a very welcomed invitation to introduce a third finger and at the feeling of the initial breech my head rolls back on my shoulders and a long, low moan leaves my mouth as my hips start rolling, my cock brushing up on his belly, his fingers plunging deeper into me.

“Now” he gasps as I brush up against his neglected cock and he pulls his fingers out, grabbing the lube and coating his prick with quick, efficient movements.  The bottle lands on the carpet with a muffled thud after he throws it on the bed with a bit too much force, bouncing to the floor.

Grasping both of my hips in his hands he lifts me up and I use one of my hands to hold his erection steady as he lowers me down onto it in one smooth movement and a hissed “ _yessss_ ” leaves my mouth as a deep whine leaves his.

“Move John” he orders, but instead of sounding authoritive he just sounds wrecked and it is that which gets me going, which urges me to lift up almost all the way off of him before dropping back down.  With my fingers digging into his chest I start to move in earnest, harder and faster,  moans and expletives coming out of my mouth as I ride the man I love.  The man I am going to spend the rest of my life with.  

Sherlocks hands come up to grab my forearms as his back arches and I look down at him and I almost come at the sight alone.  Flushed from the chest up and covered in a fine sheen of sweat, Sherlock looks fucked in the sexiest way possible.  His hair is plastered to his forehead and his irises are almost non-existent.  His bottom lip is trapped between his teeth and his head is thrown back into the pillow. 

“John, _johnjohnjohnjohn_ ” he starts chanting in a husky whisper as his hips buck up to meet mine, thrust for thrust.

He takes his right hand from my arm and moves it down to my cock, bobbing back and forth against my stomach with every thrust, and he wrap his fingers around the hard length and starts stroking.  In turn I surge forward and attach my lips to his, groaning into his mouth as his tongue pushes past my teeth and all I can do is reciprocate while we work on pulling each other apart.

“God..” I mutter against his mouth as he continues to work his hand over me.  “..Soon….not going to…” and with a twist of his wrist and a swipe of his thumb, I cry out, falling against Sherlocks chest as his fingers continue to stroke and squeeze, his hand filling up with semen, thick and warm and still increasing in quantity.

“Ffffuck, Sherlock” I groan as I finally completely spend myself, taking both of his hands in mine.  With one final, sloppy kiss, Sherlock moves his hands to my hips and, ignoring the fact that one of his hands is covered in my come, he starts thrusting into me in a hard, fast, unsteady rhythm.  Pushing up a bit I stroke my hand over his chest, pinching his nipple on the way and move further down.  With a clench of my arse around his cock, I swipe my finger into his bellybutton and circle the tip around the rim before pushing in and at that my name is pulled from Sherlocks mouth, harsh and loud as he pulls my hips down to his upthrusting pelvis and stills, just for a moment as his orgasm hits and I can feel him pulsing into me.  He relaxes somewhat, his grip on my hips lessening just a fraction before he thrusts up two, three more times, completely emptying himself.

With a shaky, slow, deep breath, Sherlock reaches over and grabs the sleeve of the robe that I had been wearing earlier, using it to clean up the mess between us, before throwing it away and pulling me down onto him.

I lay with my head on Sherlocks chest and listen to his heart gradually slow down, the rhythm of his chest slowly evening out while his fingers draw patterns on my lower back.

“So, how was that for not boring?” I ask.

“Mmm…I might just keep you around a bit longer yet, Doctor Watson-Holmes” is his lazy reply.

“Is that so, Mister Watson-Holmes?” I chuckle.  “I’m glad to hear it, but what makes you think that I will want to keep you around?” And I follow the question by dragging my fingers up his side in a feather light touch causing him to squirm and bite back an undignified yelp.

I grin up at him as he tries to glare down at me but he is too happy and too tired to bring about the effect he is after, so he gives up and rests his head back on the pillow.

“My superior intellect,  loving charm and tight arse” he finally answers and I can’t help the bark of laughter that leaves my mouth.

“Well, two out of three isn’t too bad I guess” I tell him, using my leg to drag the quilt up where I can reach it with my hand to pull it around the two of us.

“Are you saying you are not satisfied with my arse?” he asks with mock indignation and a small chuckle leaves my mouth again.

“Not at all.  It is a perfectly good arse” and I back my claim up by reaching between him and the mattress and giving the very arse in question a sound pinch, which results in a yelp of surprise from Sherlock.

“You, Doctor, are looking for trouble” Sherlock tells me, all hint of drowsiness erased from his voice and when I look up to him I am met by a dark, smouldering look.

“Always” I tell him with a look to match his.

Sherlock lowers his head to place his lips softly against mine.  “Well, then” he says softly, “You have come to the right place” and kissing him back, I couldn’t agree more, nor could I wish to be anywhere else. 

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thanks to Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan @ http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html for her transcript of A Study in Pink....It was immensely useful!


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